Somewhere
by bitchinblackframedglasses
Summary: For the longest time, the budding relationship between Mycroft Holmes and Marie Williamson was the only good rumor in town. That is, until Marie was murdered. When Sherlock's curiosity gets the better of him, he becomes determined to solve the murder. He didn't expect was to meet the victim after she was dead, though. Includes kid!Sherlock and ghosts. Beta'd by louisuperwholocked.
1. Chapter 1

Somewhere

* * *

I'll find you somewhere

I'll keep on trying until my dying day

I just need to know whatever has happened,

The truth will free my soul

Lost in the darkness, try to find your way home

I want to embrace you and never let you go

Almost hope you're in heaven so no one can hurt your soul

Living in agony 'cause I just do not know

Where you are

* * *

Headington was a fairly small town for being so close to Oxford University. It had a row of shops, a downtown if you will, to lure in university students and their money, but other than that, the town was quiet, which was the bane of the Holmes brother's existences. For them, nothing happened in Headington. There were plenty of hospitals, golf courses and parks, but there was very little city life, which fascinated the two boys- with intellect like theirs it was often hard to people watch when there were no people. Going to the university was a special treat- it provided study time _and _an opportunity to deduce passerby, as was Sherlock's favorite pastime. What he hated about those outings, however, was heading back home. It was true that he hated it because he had to leave such an interesting place, but part of the problem was that Mycroft, acting as his guardian and annoying older brother, would always insist on stopping downtown to flirt with a girl who worked in a pastry shop.

The girl herself wasn't so bad. Her name was Marie, and she wasn't bad looking either; she had long auburn hair and warm hazel eyes. She was the same age as Mycroft, about twenty, and she was fairly intelligent (Mycroft wouldn't have been interested otherwise). She even treated Sherlock with respect and as if he were an adult, completely ignoring the fact that he was only ten years old. Even though Sherlock was never polite in return, Marie still made sure to greet him every time they came in and always said goodbye, no matter how insufferable Mycroft was being. The problem, for Sherlock, was having to wait around for about twenty minutes, bored out of his mind as Mycroft flirted pointlessly with her. For a ten year old boy, having to watch someone flirt to begin with was disgusting- but the fact that he had to watch his brother attempt the heinous act made it all the more awful for him. He'd taunt Mycroft about it endlessly, but Mycroft still went back often.

For Headington, that was about as close as one could get to 'going on a date', especially for an austere Holmes. The Holmes family was infamous in Headington for being snobbish, but Marie knew first hand that the two youngest Holmeses were actually very interesting and nice enough once you got to know them. People gossiped about how someone as 'well-to-do' as a Holmes would be seen hanging around in the company of someone 'normal' like Marie, but Marie's father didn't mind (especially if it brought business into his shop), and Mr. and Mrs. Holmes didn't and wouldn't make their opinions known unless they had to. When Marie and Mycroft started dating, business, much to Mr. Williamson's pleasure, boomed. For the longest time, the budding relationship between Mycroft Holmes and Marie Williamson was the only good rumor in town.

That is, until Marie was murdered.

A lot more speculation (most of it rude and all of it unfounded) suggested that another boy had been flirting with Marie and that Mycroft had gotten jealous and had killed the other boy in a fit of rage. The police, however, knew a bit more than the rest of the population. Marie had been working a late night shift in the pastry shop, preparing goods for the next day, when someone broke in silently, shot her three times through the heart, and left without stealing anything. The police were looking for gang affiliations (which, for Headington, were almost unheard of and made an excellent story), concerned that Marie had been murdered because of something she might have been dragged into, seen, or heard.

Above all of the hubbub and general stupidity, Sherlock, even at ten years old, watched curiously. Just two years earlier he had taken interest in a case about a classmate, Carl Powers, and since then he got very excited when something _interesting _finally happened in Headington. He pretended to be grateful that Mycroft couldn't 'be an insufferable flirt' whenever he left the house, but Sherlock saw how upset his brother was over the whole thing and, inside, felt bad for him. Sherlock's mind came up with a perfect compromise to meld the situation towards a favorable outcome.

He would solve the case for two reasons.

One, it would give him something to do, and two, it would give Mycroft a sense of peace so that he would stop moping about the house.

To Sherlock, his plan was foolproof. He hardly ever doubted his own genius, and knew that if he was smart about this, he could solve the mystery as to who murdered Marie Williamson. His first case had taught him quite a bit about investigating, and he knew that involving the police was completely pointless; they didn't listen to Sherlock and they would only call his parents and tell them that he was 'hindering the investigation', a laughable accusation to Sherlock, considering the police were hindering it themselves as much as was humanly possible. Eager to get started, Sherlock could barely be bothered to go the horrid funeral that his parents said he had to attend. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes were offering support to the Williamson family as much as they were to Mycroft, which was all very boring to Sherlock.

Fortunately, he got to deduce everyone who went to the funeral _and _look for possible suspects. Anyone who could have killed Marie and would have regretted it would have shown up to the funeral. It was unlikely that anyone regretted it (the three bullets to the heart pretty much destroyed that idea), but Sherlock was open to all ideas until he ruled out each one with evidence and facts; he entertained himself throughout the whole service by deducing those around him and reviewing his ideas about his newest case in his mind. It was all very sad and everyone was offering their condolences left and right, but Sherlock couldn't bother himself to care. He held Mummy's hand, as he was instructed, and let himself drift in and out of reality as he sunk into a thoughtful stupor. It was only after the casket had been buried and the Holmeses were attending the reception afterwards that Sherlock could escape.

He knew that as good of a time as any to visit Marie's grave, if one was the killer and wanted to express regret in private, was when everyone else was gone and while the emotions of the funeral were still fresh. Undoing his ridiculous bowtie while he walked, Sherlock snuck back into the graveyard where Marie was buried, darting among graves, trying to pick a good spot so that he could see Marie's grave without being seen himself. He could give a good vigil, almost an hour or two, before anyone would notice that he was gone. He'd tried his best to behave that entire day so that after a while, his family would forget about him in the light of Headington's most recent tragedy. His bowtie now hanging comfortably loose, Sherlock peeked around a headstone to look at Marie's grave and froze, eyes narrowing.

In the dimming light, there was someone standing there, right on the fresh soil covering the grave. The light was facing them, only giving Sherlock a silhouette of who was standing there, but he could clearly see them. They were staring at the grave, shoulders hunched, head down- classic signs of guilt and or grief. The person in question was thin, and fairly tall. They looked young. Deciding that he needed more data before he could confirm that this person was guilty or innocent, Sherlock ducked around a few more graves, staying low, trying to get around the figure to look at their face. As he made his way, he could tell that the person was female, and immediately started to wonder if Marie had any cousins that could be waiting at her grave. Sherlock paused behind a larger headstone when he heard the person move, settling down with a sniffle- they were crying. Ready to make an identification once and for all, Sherlock peeked around the headstone and gasped.

Sitting on Marie Williamson's headstone, wiping their eyes, was none other than _Marie Williamson._

At the sound of the gasp, Marie looked up a bit, eyes wandering aimlessly about the graveyard until she saw Sherlock. She looked to be in a bad way. Besides the fact that she was supposed to be dead, she was very pale and looked so light that the strongest breeze could blow her away. Her usually warm eyes were miserable, and the front of her blouse, over her heart, was stained with red where she'd been shot. Looking slightly confused, Marie slid off her headstone, still staring at Sherlock as if she expected him to do something else other than stare back with wide eyes. Always the scientist, Sherlock's eyes flashed down to her feet, trying to quell the stupid, superstitious part of his mind that thought that Marie was a ghost. Marie had to be real, and there had to be a logical explanation as to why she wasn't in the casket he just saw getting buried. However, he felt the blood leave his face when he noted that there were no footprints on the freshly mounded dirt over Marie's casket. _She wasn't leaving footprints. _Marie was looking at him cautiously now, her expression tinged with hope. "Sherlock?" She whispered finally. "Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock flinched in response at hearing her voice, and she jerked back, walking _through _her headstone in surprise. She stared at him with a joyous and yet still sad expression, a hand pressed to the wound on her chest. Trying to pull himself together (this obviously was a practical joke of some kind, Sherlock was smart enough to know that ghosts didn't exist), Sherlock stepped around the headstone he'd been hiding behind, drawing himself up as disdainfully as possible. "Why would someone as painfully ordinary as you need to fake their own death?" He asked loftily, and Marie gasped with delight, passing through her headstone again to stand on her grave.

"You can see me?" She asked incredulously, as if she didn't dare believe it.

"Of course I can. You're standing right there." Sherlock scoffed, annoyed that she was trying to continue her charade. His mind was buzzing over the idea of her faking her own death. Who was in on it? Why would she need to fake her own death? He tried to think of any enemies a person like her could make (besides Mycroft's harassment, because Sherlock classified it as such instead of flirting) as she blessed herself quickly with shaking hands.

"But you can see me." Marie repeated for clarification, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"_Yes, _I can see you. Please, stop wasting my time with useless acting and tell me how you faked your own death- I find it terribly interesting." He rebuffed her, and the joy slipped off her face and she took a step closer.

"I haven't faked anything, Sherlock. I'm dead." She said softly, miserably.

"Oh, _honestly," _Sherlock grumbled, striding over and making to grab her wrist to feel for a pulse, disgusted that he had to prove his point when it was so blindingly obvious that she'd gotten caught. Wondering how Mycroft could have ever seen any sort of intelligence in Marie Williamson, Sherlock went to grab her hand.

What he was not expecting was the cool, almost damp feeling that settled over his hand as it passed right through Marie's.

Marie pulled away as if he had electrocuted her, bringing her hand to her chest, and Sherlock froze, hand stuck in midair as he stared at it, stared at the spot where he should have been taking Marie's pulse. His mind struggled to compute the fact that, somehow, this was not some elaborate ruse designed to help Marie fake her own death.

She was actually dead. She was a ghost. _A ghost. _

"Don't be afraid," Marie begged quickly as Sherlock took a step back, his mind trying to compute the update and failing miserably. "I won't hurt you, I promise. I can barely make myself solid enough to stay on the ground- I can't even touch you." She rambled a bit, still clearly worried that Sherlock was going to bolt. The young genius, after a minute, cleared his throat and rubbed his eyes.

"I am not afraid," he clarified for the record, even though he knew that if he tried to walk anywhere his knees would shake, giving away how terrified he had been just moments before. Everything he thought he knew was a lie- Marie was a _ghost. _"You are dead." Sherlock stated the obvious to give himself a starting point to focus his attentions.

"Yes," Marie whispered, hugging herself unconsciously.

"And I am the first person who has been able to see you." Sherlock continued, and Marie gave an almost frantic nod. "I haven't been poisoned or drugged in the past twenty four hours, so chances are good that you are not a hallucination." Sherlock mused out loud, walking past her and pressing his fancy dress shoe into the fresh dirt over her coffin. A strong print appeared in the dirt. Sherlock tested the gravestone next, checking it for anything that could have allowed a normal person to walk right through it. He came up empty. "Stick out your hand again," Sherlock ordered, and Marie, after a moment of hesitation, seemed to brace herself and then offered her arm to the air, extending it towards Sherlock. He stepped forward until he was right next to Marie.

Up close, it was suddenly obvious that Marie was a ghost. Her skin seemed to waver around the edges, as if she was ready to turn into smoke and vanish. Her skin wasn't just pale, either. It was _white; _she was even starting to form a contrast with the night around them as it got steadily darker out. Experimentally, Sherlock extended two fingers to press against her exposed wrist, still searching for a pulse, and his fingers passed right through, the odd feeling of cool damp returning to his skin. However, it was Marie who shivered, drawing her wrist up to her chest. It was clear that she didn't like the feeling very much. "You are a ghost," Sherlock said, half to himself as he studied Marie intently, trying to gather facts as his mind exploded into overdrive.

"Sherlock? Are you out here?" Mummy's voice was suddenly calling, jerking Sherlock out of his thoughts. Marie flashed and flickered, nearly disappearing, before becoming visible again over on her grave, hands pressed to her chest wound as if in fright.

"I'll be back tomorrow. Don't leave." Sherlock promised, pointing at Marie in a 'stay' gesture, a brilliant thought occurring to him. If Marie was available for him to interrogate, he could solve her murder without difficulty. Besides, she was utterly fascinating now that she was dead- he would be able to study a real ghost. The surprise on Marie's face stayed with Sherlock as he turned briskly around and headed back through the graveyard. He absorbed his mother's scolding without complaint or even an eye-roll; he was too absorbed in his thoughts.

Thankfully, his family was rather low-key after they arrived home from the funeral, so Sherlock had unlimited time to himself in his room, where he could pace and stare at the walls as he sorted over his newest puzzle, the murder and the literally ghostly reappearance of Marie Williamson.

* * *

**A/N: Hello, hello! I have no idea why I wrote this, don't know if it's any good, but frankly, I don't care. I figure I need to stop hoarding stories on my computer; I need to _post _things that I write or the whole process is moot, right? Right. **

**I know I said that I was going to work on a sequel for Innocence Lost...but then this hit me in the dead of night when I was woken up by a snowplow of all things. Funny how these things work out, huh?**

**Anyway, yes, tell me what you thought (if you so choose).**

**bitchinblackframedglasses**


	2. Chapter 2

All through the night, Marie sat cross-legged on top of her grave, her mind racing. Things had taken a rather supernatural turn very quickly, and for a girl who had just been murdered, it was a lot to handle. For one thing, she remembered very little about her murder. She had clear memories of when she was alive and the memories she was making now that she was undead, but her murder was still very unclear to her, which made the idea of coming to terms with the fact that she was dead very difficult. For her, she had _just _been alive, minding her own business, working on pie-crusts and then…she was standing in the back room, an odd pain in her chest as police men swarmed around her, barking orders and gathering evidence.

At first, Marie had asked them what was going on. When no one answered, she screamed and cried and swore and tried to throw something, learning the hard way that she was dead because her hand went right through the rolling pin she'd been reaching for. This realization was horrible, and she tried to deny it even when she had to watch her own body be zipped up in a bag to be carted off somewhere unknown. Eventually, she pulled herself together enough to follow the police around. She found her family, which made her cry some more as she sat in her own house, watching her mother and father cry together over the loss of the daughter they couldn't see just inches away from them. Marie followed the police investigation as closely as possible when she couldn't handle watching her family grieve in an attempt to understand just what had happened to her. The fact that she was murdered came as a huge shock- she couldn't think of anyone who would have wanted to kill her. The police's idea of a gang was ridiculous to her- she didn't even know of any gangs that existed in all of Headington and Oxford, not to mention England.

Still struggling to come to terms with the fact that she was alone, with no one to comfort her, see her, or hear her, Marie attended her own funeral. It hurt her deeply to see all of her friends and family there, and she couldn't help but begin to imagine what her life would have been like if she was still alive, especially when she saw Mycroft. Would they have continued dating, even when he went off to college? Would she have gotten married- to anyone, Mycroft included? When the ceremonies were over and she was left to rot in the ground, Marie, overwhelmed with sorrow, confusion, and loss, couldn't help but sob at her own gravestone. Just as her tears were running dry, she'd heard a gasp. At first, she dismissed it- it was probably a family member returning to her grave. They were most likely going to shed a few tears of their own, explaining the gasp. However, when no one came over, she raised her head, looking for the source of the noise. In all of her life and now death, she would never have expected to make eye contact with Sherlock Holmes, of all people, that night.

As Mycroft's little brother, he'd been there every time Mycroft came in to the shop to say hello to her. Rightly guessing that Sherlock was just as intelligent as his brother, if not more so, and that treating Sherlock like a child would be a very bad mistake, Marie had always made it a point to greet Sherlock like an adult and say goodbye to him the same way. If she were in his shoes, she would have hated coming along to watch her sibling flirt and would have appreciated a bit of respect and kindness. Sherlock had usually either ignored her, belittled her until Mycroft hushed him, or he'd given her a very frosty greeting in return, but Marie knew that Sherlock was putting on an act. She had lots of younger cousins, and she could spot someone trying to remain aloof when she saw one. Because of that insight, she always had made an effort to address him, no matter what horrible things he shot back at her in return (one time he made sure to point out that she'd been crying because her dog had died the previous day).

Seeing him staring back at her with wide eyes, eyes that held recognition, had sent a shock of excitement and hope through her body. He wasn't looking through her, he was looking _at _her. Once they got over the fact that yes, she was real and yes, they could communicate with each other, fate had to intervene and separate them. However, Marie was shocked that Sherlock promised to return. In fact, he told her to stay put, as if he had the intent to not just return, but to _talk. _It was mindboggling that a ten year old boy, no matter how much of a genius he was, wanted to come back and talk with her. Ideas of what was going to become of their connection weighed heavy on her mind as she practiced solidifying in the graveyard all night long. It was an arduous process- she could feel every part of her body as individual molecules. Keeping them all in one place was hard enough to begin with, and on top of that, she was trying to be solid enough to rest on things- to touch things.

By morning (she'd already discovered that sleep was useless to her), she was sifting dirt lightly through her fingers, practicing holding it in her hands and then letting it pass through her molecules. It was easier to practice with just solidifying her hands and nothing else, and then she would hopefully move on from there. She was just concentrating enough to hold a small stone in her hand when she heard a loud scoff. Frightened, she blasted apart momentarily, reforming into wisps of smoke and then into her normal form, searching for the source of the sound. Seconds later, she found it. Or, rather, him. A man from a different century was standing a few feet away, looking at her with a type of frustrated recognition. He was obviously a ghost. "You new ones are all the same, are you not?" he questioned, half to himself as he approached. Marie backed cautiously away through her gravestone, and the man sighed, some of his frustration melting away. "I am not going to hurt you. It is good to be cautious, however, especially because you are so new. I am Sir Thomas Klinberg." He introduced himself, offering a hand for her to shake.

"Marie, Marie Williamson." Marie ventured finally, delighted to find that she could touch other ghosts like she could humans when she was alive.

"Murdered, were you? How dreadful." Thomas launched right into a conversation, tipping his bowler hat back to study Marie properly. "Poison, before you ask. My wife found me to be unsatisfactory so she laced my whiskey with arsenic." He shared, seeing her curiosity.

"I'm sorry." Marie said quietly, realizing that only now could she really empathize with someone who had died. Murder was horrible. What she could remember of her own death made her want to shiver. The terror she had felt in her veins was unlike anything she had ever experienced.

"Yes, well," Thomas sniffed, checking a pocket watch, as was a force of habit. He wound it as he spoke. "You're new, and although this graveyard is fairly nice as burial grounds go, there are things you need to know before you venture out into the world. That is, if you choose to. I am an agent of the Ghost Council, and my job is to tell the newly deceased the rules of our world and give them a few pointers on handling their new existence." He fell into an explanation in a tone of familiar lecture- he'd probably done this hundreds of times.

"This feels awfully…businesslike. I take it that- that there is no heaven or hell?" Marie ventured to ask, and Thomas chuckled.

"You're smart too, which will work out well for you. Yes, you are absolutely right. There is no heaven or hell or purgatory or anything of the sort. The quicker you can adapt to the fact that you are bound to earth unless you find eternal rest _not _in heaven, the better time you will have here. Most people, when they die, immediately pass into an eternal resting place that has no name. You simply…are comfortable. Forever. It is dark there, peaceful and quiet. Some ghosts have returned from it, but they live a _different_ lifestyle, we shall say. Any sane ghost stays in eternal comfort once they find it. However, there are some people who never find their eternal rest. Most are those who are twisted, or have done evil in this world; it is hard for them to find peace when they are the exact opposite. They have a few domains around the globe and I give you a word to the wise- stay as far away from them as you can." Thomas warned, and Marie thought frantically over what he was telling her. The idea that there was nothing for her now, nothing but the idea of peace, was horrible. She had been half hoping to see deceased relatives or a friendly face. Thomas was nice enough, but he'd brought the news that there was no one waiting for her.

"Then, there are those who cannot find their eternal rest because of the nature of their death. There are people like you and me who have a chance at finding their eternal happiness…whatever that may be. There are others, however, who were the victims of such cruelty that they have what is called a death-echo. They relive their death every day of their immortal existence. The chances of them finding eternal happiness are very, very slim. Most go insane and join with the darker ghosts, so it is wise to stay away from them as well."

"And what is the Ghost Council you mentioned before?" Marie asked, leaning lightly against her headstone, now determined to soak up as much information as possible. It was a hard decision to make, ignoring how overwhelmed you were to take in even _more _information, but she sensed that she had to.

"The Ghost Council is a group of ghosts who have created rules for our world for the betterment of all. A governing body, if you will. The rules are simple. One- you can never take a human being. Ever. Possessing a human being will kill them- and that is murder. The punishment is most severe; your soul is shredded into pieces, in a process called fragmentation, so that you may never rest for all of eternity. Two- using other life forms, such as plants or animals, is also forbidden. Depending on how many lives you destroy, your punishment varies from isolation to shredding. Three- associating with humans is ill-advised. Some ghosts, for their own amusement, follow psychics and ghost-whisperers around, but that is on a strictly comedic basis. The longer you remain in a human's presence, the more dangerous the situation becomes." Thomas finished, casting her a critical look.

"But- why would I want to take a human, or a plant, or do any of those things in the first place?" Marie questioned, confused and slightly frightened by how quickly and blithely Thomas was presenting her with all the knowledge she would ever need to know about being dead. It was hard to keep her composure, but she was trying. Thomas sent her a wry smile.

"I forget sometimes how young you are- forgive me. The presence of a human being, of any sort of life form, is intoxicating. The older you become the more sensitive and powerful you will be. At the moment, you unconsciously feel the life of the grass, of insects. Those small yet numerous sources of life call to you- but because the level of power is so low you have learned to tune it out, even in your young age. The sun is the one power source you can always take from because we will never run out of it. If you ever feel ill or tired, lay in the sun. The life source will make you feel better. Humans, on the other hand, feel alive. The older you become the more you will be able to hear the siren call of life that runs in their veins. Touching them will be unbearable- do not, under any circumstances, solidify around a human. The consequences are severe. If you are unable to resist the need for life, you will start to kill indiscriminately and you will be shredded." Thomas warned, and Marie suddenly understood the burning sensation that had come from Sherlock trying to touch her. It was painful because it was warm, alive. It was strange to think that warmth was now foreign to her, but even the heat coming off of Sherlock's body had made her sensitive.

"I understand." Marie told Thomas, swallowing hard and gathering her courage. Even though he had just warned her to not associate with humans, Marie felt somewhere inside that Sherlock could help her, even if he was still alive and she was dead. She was confident that even if she started to want Sherlock's life that she could turn away from it- she could never hurt something so innocent.

"You are handling this very well, Marie. If you ever require assistance, the Ghost Council has offices anywhere there is a human governmental office. No matter what country you are in, you can find help. Do you have any other questions? If not, I must depart. More souls await." Thomas said, glancing at his pocket watch again.

"I- just one. You told me to avoid humans…but what if I'm spotted? How do I hide?" Marie asked, wording her question carefully. She didn't want to tell Thomas that she'd already been seen by Sherlock- he would tell her not to see the little boy again and, frankly, Marie craved the social interaction. However, being able to hide (she didn't know how many people could see her or if Sherlock was the only one) was a valuable asset. Thomas stowed his watch.

"It is very simple. You are well aware that your being is made of pieces, correct? So is the world around you. You are currently existing in one spectrum when, here on earth, we have several. If you concentrate, you can flash through them. You will know when you succeed, for things will look different and yet the same. You can also use those same spectrums to find soul residue, travel, and even from a ghost's vision disappear entirely. If you need help, go to a Council office. Now, I must go. Farewell, Marie Williamson." Sir Thomas Klinberg disappeared as quickly as he'd come, leaving Marie with a lot to think about. She already knew that despite the warning, she was going to stay put and see Sherlock until he didn't want to see her anymore. He was her only reminder of her past life, and she wasn't quite ready to move forward and leave that life behind her.

Considering she had no need to eat or sleep, Marie practiced moving through the spectrums that Thomas had mentioned. It was difficult; she had to let go of her consciousness and yet remain in control and aware of every single particle of her body. She made it to a few of them, including one that moved her about the Earth so quickly that it took her almost an hour to find her way back to the Rose Hill Cemetery where she was buried. Eventually, she settled on just being invisible until Sherlock would come. With that time, she stayed in the sun, beginning to recognize how good it felt on her skin. She toured the graveyard after a while, bored with simply sitting, and ran into a few ghosts who wished her well on her new life. They were all much older, and gave her lots of advice on the state of things.

Night fell, and still Marie waited at her grave. She was impatiently waiting for Sherlock to come back, and was terrified that he wouldn't, but at the same time the day alone was good for her. It gave her time to further adjust to her predicament. She practiced moving between spectrums and holding objects. She'd tried picking grass, but she couldn't manage the power to pull the grass yet. She could scoop dirt because that took barely any effort, but other motions, like pushing or pulling or dragging, were much harder. As the night got later and later, Marie's despair grew. She must have scared Sherlock away- either that or his brilliant mind came to the conclusion that ghosts like her were fairy-tales and didn't exist. Determined to cry in private, Marie sunk down through the earth and into her coffin. Being alone, in the dark, was nice, but it was also very lonely, and made Marie feel worse. She was just about to sink further into misery when she heard footsteps and felt heat- someone was at her grave.

In her haste to rise from her grave, Marie got stuck in a few spectrums, and flickered in and out of sight until she was suddenly whole, staggering on the surface. Sherlock was standing on her grave, watching her with unparalleled curiosity. "Sorry," Marie apologized in a gasp, holding herself for a moment to check that all of her was in one spectrum. It had felt awful getting split between two.

"What happened?" Sherlock asked, cocking his head to the side. It must have been very late- he was in pajamas and a pair of Wellingtons, a torch in hand. He had clearly snuck out of the house after he was supposed to be asleep, just to see her.

"I- sorry," Marie found herself apologizing again as she let out a long shiver, flickering a bit as she checked each spectrum for extraneous particles. When she returned, Sherlock looked more fascinated than ever. "Sorry. I was in my coffin, in a different spectrum and when you arrived it startled me. I got a bit lost." Marie explained quickly.

"_Spectrum? _What is that?" He asked, settling down against her headstone as easy as could be, turning off the torch. Marie seemed to glow in the dark a bit, and with that bit of light he was perfectly comfortable with sitting in a graveyard at night. Besides, anyone patrolling the yard would notice his bright torch instantly.

"Well, it's- I'm still _on _Earth…but in a different place. In some spectrums I am visible to you, and some I won't be. There are even a few where you can hide from other ghosts. It's difficult, though." Marie found herself tripping over the words as she tried to explain something that Sherlock could never, _ever _grasp. That is, until he was dead and if he became a ghost.

"We can run experiments on all of that, don't worry. Why is it difficult?" Sherlock waved a hand dismissively, his tone all business but his eyes shining with excitement.

"Experiments?" Marie echoed. That was most _definitely _against the rules of the Ghost Council. If she agreed and the Council found out, what would happen to her? To Sherlock?

"Yes, of course." Sherlock said, as if she were an idiot. They stared at each other for a moment.

"Sherlock…there are rules to being a ghost. Those rules…if I break them…I can't, I'm sorry. I really love seeing you and talking to you, but I can't let you run any experiments on me. I'm sorry." Marie unconsciously rubbed her chest wound again, feeling hysteria and despair rise up in her throat. This was surely it- Sherlock would huff off and would leave her all alone.

"Rules?" Sherlock questioned, eyes inquisitive. He didn't seem all that affected by Marie's distress, but internally he felt awfully sorry for her. Despite that, he was still a ten year old, snobby genius who was still seeking entertainment.

"I- yes. I can't tell you about those, either." Marie said miserably, sinking to the ground to sit cross-legged as well. She kept her distance, though. She didn't want Sherlock reaching for her again, especially when she was still so new at maintaining a certain state. If she were to solidify and if Sherlock touched her…Marie didn't know what would happen, but she trusted Thomas and knew that there would be horrid consequences. Besides, she didn't want to run the risk of killing something so innocent, even on accident. In the dark of the night, the warmth and sunlight from just hours ago seemed very far away. It's heat still burned inside her, but slowly- and would run out soon.

"I propose an exchange." Sherlock announced, deciding to try and milk the situation as much as possible. "I will solve your murder if you tell me about ghosts and let me run experiments." He offered, and Marie blinked at him.

"I- what? Sherlock, I don't doubt that you could but- you're ten years old, and this is murder we are talking about. What if you find whoever did this to me? What if they hurt you? I can't accept that," Marie decided. As much as she wanted to know who had killed her and why (after all, she might find that eternal rest Thomas was talking about), Sherlock was still just a child. Morally, she couldn't agree to something like that. Sherlock frowned at her. It was nice that she hadn't told him that he wasn't smart enough, but it bothered him that people still thought that he was incapable of doing anything just because he was a child.

"Then you should follow me around, I suppose, because I'm going to solve it anyway. You're an adult; you can 'keep me safe' from the 'bad guys'." Sherlock declared, letting his sarcasm run wild as he stood up, beating dirt out of his pajamas.

"Sherlock- you can't. Please, don't." Marie begged, hurriedly floating to her feet as well. It was quickly becoming apparent that there was nothing she could do to stop Sherlock, and no one else (so far) could see her. She couldn't warn anyone of what Sherlock was about to do, and that terrified her.

"You're in Rose Hill Cemetery, which is no more than twenty minutes away from New Hinksey Primary School. Be there at noon tomorrow and we'll start with an interview. I'll work the evidence from there." Sherlock ordered, excitement starting to leak into his tone as he walked away, leaving Marie floating there, paralyzed with horror and worry.

* * *

**A/N: Sherlock is a pushy little shit, isn't he? I tried to make him cute and Sherlock-esque because he's a kid but he's still himself. You know what I mean? No? Ok. Also, if any of the 'ghost rules' moved too fast or were unclear PLEASE let me know. I've read them a few times over and my awesome beta looked at them too, but I'm still worried. Bleh.**

**Next Chapter: Sherlock Makes a Friend**


	3. Chapter 3

The next day, Marie fretted anxiously. She hadn't left the cemetery yet, and wasn't sure if she wanted to. She would see other ghosts as well as be around lots of people, whom she'd been told to avoid. However, if she didn't go, she couldn't imagine the trouble Sherlock would get himself into. Steeling her nerves and trying not to think about the 'shredding' process Thomas had mentioned, Marie walked out of the cemetery. She soon found that she could float and even go through different spectrums to move much more quickly. It helped quite a bit in her quest to avoid people on the streets, but when she arrived at Sherlock's school at 11:45, she was suddenly in the presence of over a hundred kids and their teachers. Each one was very much alive, and that started to tug at her sense of concentration. It horrified Marie that she was so interested in children in the sole purpose of killing them, so she stayed at the farthest corner of the playground, holding herself, remaining invisible in case another ghost were to come by.

Finally, at exactly twelve o' clock, Sherlock appeared on the playground, looking disgruntled by the screaming, laughing, and playing children around him. He automatically crossed to a deserted corner of the playground and sat down, opening up a binder he had with him and taking out a pencil. He stared pointedly at the pages, but didn't write anything. He was waiting for her. Trying to fight down her anxiety, Marie dissolved into a different spectrum to cross the playground to avoid the siren call of life of the children playing around her. She appeared, still invisible, in front of Sherlock and took the time to study him. He was thin for a boy his age, and well on his way to shooting up like a beanpole. His eyes, facial expressions, and even his movements were carefully controlled, to a point where it broke Marie's heart. She wasn't stupid, she knew that the Holmes boys were different, but she had never seen anyone act so…caged. As if they had to hide from the world all the time. It was awful to recognize in someone so young. Deciding that he didn't have much time for recess, she slowly shimmered into awareness. He didn't look up, but a wry smile pulled at his lips. "You're late," he said softly, even though he was obviously thrilled that Marie had come.

"I'd tell you why…but that breaks the rules." she told him, resisting the urge to lean away from him. Intoxicating life was pouring out of him and every other child on the playground, and Marie knew that it was dangerous for to be there, and yet there she was, already breaking the rules. Sherlock huffed, but said nothing. Instead, he scrawled on the paper in his binder. It appeared to all the other children that he was writing in his workbook- but only Marie could see that he was communicating silently so that it didn't look as if he was talking to himself.

_You should tell me anyway. This investigation might take a while, and I should understand you. It will make things much simpler. _ He wrote, and Marie frowned.

"You shouldn't be investigating at all, Sherlock. But…you do have a right to know this," Marie reasoned. If she was unable to control the urge for life, she'd kill Sherlock. He had a right to, at least, be able to identify all of the potential threats he was facing. It was clear that he trusted her already, and she didn't want to betray him by instinct. "This might seem obvious, but there is no life in me, at all. I'm cold, always, and you…you're warm. There is _life _in you, and feeling you emanating it, feeling that spark from all of these other children, the teachers, _anyone…_it's intoxicating. It's addictive, and if I don't control myself, I'll try to take it, like a parasite. One of the rules is to avoid human contact at all cost, lest you possess that human to take their life and murder them in the process. It's dangerous for me to be around you, Sherlock. If I disappear, if I go away, don't try to find me. If I tell you to leave, you should, and as quickly as possible. I am still very new, and controlling the urge is…difficult." Marie explained slowly, sinking to the ground but maintaining a good five feet between them. Sherlock looked up at her through the fringe of his hair, eyes searching for what, Marie didn't know.

_You won't hurt me. _Sherlock wrote with such conviction that Marie froze, closing her eyes and letting out a shaky breath. Why was Sherlock so trusting? She had just confessed that she was fighting the urge to kill him, and yet he still wanted to be near her, to help her. It was odd, but heartwarming. _Now, tell me about the night you were killed._ Sherlock added when Marie said nothing. Unable to help herself, Marie turned her face away from Sherlock, fighting down the urge to cry. Unconsciously, she reached up and played with the material of her blouse that was darkened with blood.

"I was working the night-shift, alone. Dad always warned me to keep all the doors locked, and they were. I was in the back kitchen, working on pie and pastry crusts for the next day. Then- I can't remember what happened, no matter how hard I try. I can recall an incredible amount of fear, the kind of fear when you know that you're going to die…but nothing else. I was working and then, suddenly…I was watching the police zip me into a body bag." Marie's voice dropped off into a whisper and she stared at the ground, unable to meet Sherlock's silver eyes. Her murder was still fresh in her mind, the last minute desperation; the savoring of air before you knew no more- those feelings haunted her. Retelling what she knew, to a ten year old, no less, was not easy. In fact, a few tears passed down her cheeks and landed into the dirt, leaving no trace. The barely audible sounds of Sherlock's pencil on paper jerked Marie out of her grief a moment later, and she raised her eyes to see the message, still ignoring Sherlock's face as much as possible.

_You didn't recognize anyone, hear anything strange, or see something odd while you were still alive and then after you died? _Sherlock's words were all business, and Marie laughed bitterly.

"No, Sherlock, I didn't. I wouldn't even have known that I was murdered unless I had followed around the police for an hour. I don't even remember seeing a gun- I had to see the police report to know that I'd been shot." Marie said sharply, starting to feel anger for the first time. Why was she needlessly, senselessly murdered? _Why? _She hadn't done anything wrong. The injustice made her want to scream.

_Did anyone have a grudge against you? Anyone who didn't like you- enough so to have you killed? _Sherlock wrote next, and this time Marie met his gaze, with a bit of fury in her expression. For a ten year old, Sherlock sure knew how to disregard her feelings, to push her buttons, and to cast her aside. How could he suggest something like that?

"No, of course not!" Marie exclaimed, her distress starting to sneak into her tone. "I was nobody- an ordinary person. The only thing that I ever did that was 'out of the ordinary' was to date your brother, which shouldn't have been considered strange anyway- Mycroft is a person, like you- you're not- you shouldn't be treated differently than anyone else just because of who you are-," Marie cut herself off, forcing herself to take a deep breath even though she had no need to. She was starting to feel sick, even in the sun, and she realized that she was leaning forward now, toward Sherlock…toward his warmth. "I-!" Marie, horrified with herself and how quickly she started to give in to her wants, vanished on the spot, blasting through several different spectrums in a quick succession until she was back in the graveyard.

Sherlock sat confused in his corner of the playground, pencil poised to ask another question, staring at the spot that Marie had occupied just seconds before. Most people sneered at the Holmes family, treated them with anger yet compliance, but Marie hadn't. She'd gotten upset when talking about Mycroft, about how people in Headington treated them differently because he was dating 'down' in class and she was dating the snobby, mysterious, eldest son of Mr. Holmes. It was true that she may have been upset because she was discussing her violent murder, but Sherlock dismissed the idea because Marie said that she couldn't remember anything. Why be upset about something when she couldn't remember details? She'd cried when she talked about the fact that she _was _dead, but if all she could remember was fear and no specific act against her, the chances were that she was upset about Mycroft and about how the Holmeses were treated, not because of her end- Sherlock had seen it in her face. Considering the fact that she was the first person outside of his family to not treat him like a child and to condemn the way his family was treated, Sherlock started to feel.

He felt guilty (just a bit) for forcing Marie into complying with his investigation. He felt sad for her, even though caring would do nothing for her. Sherlock felt gratitude and respect for how she viewed him and his family. Through it all, Sherlock had the nagging suspicion that she was his first friend. That thought in mind, Sherlock spent the rest of school worrying about Marie. Mummy had always told him that he was too rude and pushy too soon, and Sherlock wondered (despite his ten-year old arrogance) that he'd hurt Marie by asking so nonchalantly about her murder. Determined to make it up to her and to continue with the investigation, Sherlock was quiet and mostly compliant all day around Mycroft and his family. He ate dinner without complaint and went to bed only when Mummy told him he couldn't stay up anymore (to avoid suspicion about his good behavior). Once he'd waited an hour and a half (to be safe), Sherlock grabbed his torch and his Wellingtons before he was sneaking out of the house. It was a long walk to Rose Hill Cemetery, but it passed quickly as Sherlock got more and more anxious. He darted quickly around the graves before he finally came to a stop at hers.

"Marie?" He asked quietly, suddenly wishing that he wasn't so alone in the graveyard. With Marie's comforting glow, he felt safe, especially when they were talking. Without her, the graveyard seemed a lot more spooky, even for the young genius. "Marie, I'm sorry," He told her grave, realizing that she could very easily be there and he didn't know it.

He was right.

Marie was sitting behind her gravestone, using it as a backrest. She was currently in a spectrum where no one could see her, so that she could be paralyzed by her grief in private. She hadn't disappeared to find a more private spot when Sherlock came up, and as soon as he apologized, she felt new tears well up in her eyes. She could tell, just by his tone, by the fact that he'd called her by name, that he cared, and that he was apologizing for her death, for her new situation, and for being so quick to press her on her own murder. It was such a complex action that carried such deep emotion that it made Marie cry. Again. "I'm sorry about today, and about everything. You disappeared so quickly, and, well, I can't conduct an interview without you, now can I?" He asked, his vulnerability disappearing as quickly as it had come. "What are you doing, Sherlock?" He asked himself after a moment, beating his torch against his palm. "She might not even be here, and-," Marie decided to cut in, hoping to avoid Sherlock getting frustrated and leaving.

"Sherlock?" She asked quietly, and the boy inhaled sharply to cover his surprise at hearing Marie's voice so suddenly. Marie stood up, made sure that there was plenty of space between herself and the grave (and, therefore, Sherlock), before she shivered into visibility. She'd sat behind her headstone all day, and without the sun's rays touching her directly, she was cold, and didn't glow nearly as brightly. In the dark, cold of the night, Sherlock seemed more alive than ever, which made Marie's heart twist. She offered him a slightly sad smile as they stared at each other. "You're shivering," Marie noted finally, and Sherlock shrugged.

"So are you." He noted, frowning at her as she shivered as if on cue. Marie's smile got sadder, but it didn't fall. "Why?" He asked.

"I propose an exchange." Marie announced, repeating Sherlock's words on purpose. "We'll walk you home so that you can get warm, and I'll tell you why I'm shivering. Deal?" She offered, and Sherlock couldn't help but smile. She really _was _his friend.

"I suppose," he deadpanned, and set off through the cemetery, Marie following parallel about five feet away, maintaining a careful distance. "Can't you stop?" he asked Marie as she shivered when they passed out of the gates of Rose Hill. She sent him another slightly sad smile.

"Not until tomorrow, at least. That can't be helped." She told him, and seeing the question in his gaze, she continued. "I told you that ghosts can't take life from people, right? Well, that rule extends to anything that has life on Earth- from the smallest bacteria to the largest animal. The one source I can tap into, however, is the sun. Solar power is renewable and will never run out, so ghosts can use it. It keeps me warm at night. It's not like being alive, not even close…but it helps." Marie shared as they walked along- Sherlock on the sidewalk and Marie down the middle of the road.

"You're saying that you didn't sunbathe today so now you're cold?" Sherlock scoffed, but his tone was warm.

"That's exactly what I'm saying. It didn't help that I felt very…compelled to take from kids at your school today, including you. I wasn't even aware that I felt that way until I was already leaning towards you- it's that unconscious of an action. That scared me, so I left. Sorry about that, by the way." Marie apologized, and Sherlock shook his head simply.

"The fault is mine as well. I was very crass when it came to asking you about sensitive information, and I apologize. If it makes you feel better, however, I have a lead in your case."

"A lead? Should I be calling you 'Detective Inspector Holmes'?" Marie asked, and Sherlock threw her such a sassy look that she started laughing.

"DI's don't consult ghosts to solve the stories of their deaths." Sherlock said disdainfully as they walked along, passing under a streetlight.

"So you're a consulting detective to the dead, then? Very nice. What's the lead?" Marie asked, and Sherlock looked at her thoughtfully for a moment before responding.

"You brought to my attention the reason why you were talked about in ridiculous gossip- you were dating my brother." Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "Mycroft has people who don't like him- maybe someone was trying to hurt him by going after you."

"Do you really think so?" Marie asked, astounded at the very possibility.

"It's better than the current theory. Gang affiliations, _honestly." _Sherlock grumbled, and Marie laughed again. "Did you ever meet any of Mycroft's classmates or friends?" Sherlock asked her as they walked.

"Just a few, and in passing. They all seemed nice enough to me. We were in different social circles, which made things awkward." Marie reflected, eyes slightly downcast as she spoke. The more they discussed Mycroft, the more Marie thought about how he'd made her feel. She regretted not reacting more positively to his affections, no matter how slight he made them seem. Mycroft was a good man, and she missed him.

"Hmm," Sherlock mused, trying to ignore his shivers. How annoying they were, when he was trying to focus on his mind, not his body! Thinking was what was important then, not his body's reaction to being cold. "I'll have to dig into Mycroft's personal life. How disgusting," he commented, and Marie made an amused noise, walking a bit closer now, more by the gutter. "You're closer," Sherlock noted, storing ideas away for later. Marie looked up from the asphalt road at his comment and gave him a slightly strained smile.

"I know. I'm trying to train myself to resist the urge. I was alright walking down the middle of the street- when we're that far apart I'm fine. The closer I get though, the greater the need. I've just got to wait it out." Marie told him, floating along now. She was tired of walking when she didn't have to expend that effort if she didn't want to. Floating allowed her to focus more carefully on staying exactly three feet away from Sherlock.

"That seems reasonable." Sherlock noted, and they walked in silence for a bit. "Can you touch me? I should rephrase- are you always in such a vaporous state?" Sherlock asked a while later as they turned onto his street. Marie actually flinched, adding a foot of space between them.

"I can solidify, yes. It's difficult- and I've been practicing by sifting dirt through my fingers to master it…but I cannot touch you. If I do- the consequences would be awful." She told him.

"It's against the rules," Sherlock stated a matter-of-factly, and Marie shot him a slightly scandalized look.

"Well, yes, but I would probably _kill_ you, Sherlock." She stressed, and she sighed with slight fondness, seeing that he was not at all phased by her confession.

"What happens if you break a rule?" He pressed, and Marie grimaced, unable to fight down a shiver- then another. She'd thought a lot about being shredded- and what that would entail. The more she thought about it, the worse it seemed, until the idea of having your soul ripped to pieces frightened her instantly.

"They shred you," she told Sherlock softly, and he looked at her incredulously.

"_Shred?" _He repeated. "Explain," he demanded, but quietly, as they had arrived at the Holmes estate.

"Tomorrow. It's late and you need to sleep. Besides- I don't want to talk about it right before you go to bed." Marie told him, and Sherlock scowled at her.

"I already have one Mummy, thank you very much," He whispered haughtily, before tucking his torch into his boot and climbing up the trellis next to his window, slipping silently inside and shutting the window without so much as a goodbye. However, once he saw Marie disappear, he couldn't stop the huge smile that crossed his face. He shucked his boots and crawled into bed, his mind spinning over the newest facts he'd learned about Marie, about ghosts. She was utterly fascinating, and the contentment that brought him easily carried him into sleep.

* * *

**A/N: Sherlock's making his first friend, isn't that sweet? What will he find when he investigates deeper into Marie's murder? Stay tuned for moorreeee**

**bitchinblackframedglasses**


	4. Chapter 4

Over the next few days, Marie forced herself to visit Sherlock at school more often, just for the half hour he had for recess, and then in his home, so that he wouldn't have to walk all the way to the cemetery and back every night. People started to comment on how cold a room would get when she entered it (well, they thought it was because of Sherlock, but they were obviously wrong), but other than that, Marie remained undetectable to everyone except Sherlock. She wormed out of explaining what shredding was after deciding that Sherlock was too young to hear something like that. Her decision made him very unhappy, but she made up for it by telling him all about the other ghosts she'd met and the powers she was beginning to discover. Her meetings with older ghosts had given her information about modifying the world around her. As a ghost, she could use her _mind _to do things. Marie could touch things, move things, manipulate objects (and, if she felt like 'possessing' people, as humans knew it), set things on fire, you name it. Of course, learning to do all of those things was incredibly difficult, but it gave Marie something to do when Sherlock was in school or with his family.

While they spent a lot of time together gathering evidence about her case, Marie was determined not to meet with him for any longer than 7 hours at a crack, and for several reasons. One, even though Sherlock was unique, he was still a boy. He still had a life to live, homework to do, kids to belittle, his family to talk to. Marie was determined to be his friend, but not to take over his life. Surely she could find something else to do to leave Sherlock alone for a while, especially when he was in the depths of his mind, thinking. Also, Marie, for all of her strict self-restraint, still wanted that energy in Sherlock, in his family, in anything alive. Being with Sherlock was good practice (she was getting very good at resisting, to a point where she could even let Sherlock walk around her without feeling bad), but she still couldn't get any closer than a foot or two away. Her tolerance was growing, and she knew that maybe, one day, she'd be able to sit next to him, to stand side-by-side.

The weeks passed, and thanks to some spying done by Marie, Sherlock had some information from the police department that hadn't been released to the public yet about her murder. He knew about what type of bullets had killed her (.32 caliber rounds from a handgun), about the placement of her body (sprawled on the ground from the force of the shots), marks on her body (there were none, save for the entry wounds), and any other evidence found at the scene. Despite all of that extra help, Sherlock couldn't get the pieces to fit together. His lead about the murder being somehow tied to Mycroft had died when his brother got suspicious and irritated with Sherlock's questions. He had been withdrawn since Marie's death, but soon grew colder than ever, as if to make up for the time when he'd been completely open with his family. With no leads or data, Sherlock was a mess.

Marie was his friend. She'd scared other boys on the playground when they tried to make fun of him, she'd listened through his rants, offered suggestions about what to investigate next, and hadn't judged him because of who he was and the habits he kept. As his first and only friend, Sherlock was protective of her, and when he couldn't do one thing, the simplest yet most important thing he could ever do for her, it made him depressed, unhappy. He felt sick that he couldn't get his usually perfect mind to solve her case. Sherlock stopped visiting Rose Hill cemetery, and after a week of observing Sherlock's black mood and noting his absences in the graveyard, Marie finally decided to press him on it. She'd given him space, but she saw how upset he was and wanted to help him the way he had helped her when she had just passed.

She remained completely invisible when she first appeared in his room, just so that she could watch him. Sherlock was standing in front of one of the walls in his room that was usually covered by a poster of the periodic table. Underneath, he had pinned up the facts of the case, bits of evidence he'd collected, things like that. He'd tried to create a web, like he always did when solving a problem, but it wasn't working, she could tell. There were bags under Sherlock's eyes, and he looked miserable. Every once and awhile, he'd start pacing furiously, running his hands through his hair and muttering quietly. Finally, Marie decided to stop him- it was clear to her that Sherlock was on a path to self-destruction, and she wanted to help him avoid it as much as possible. "Sherlock, what's wrong?" She asked softly, and he jerked around to face where her voice had come from, eyes hollowed. She remained invisible, though, knowing that he had a hard time opening up, especially when there was someone there to 'judge' him. Not being able to see her seemed to put him at ease, but he still looked awful.

"I've always been able to solve problems, Marie. Always. _Always! _I can see all of the variables and facts and answers like a map in my head. It's been almost boring putting the pieces together- but you don't have any pieces! I can't- I can't conclude this case. I don't have enough data and there is no way of getting more- you've already told me everything the police know." Sherlock ranted quickly and furiously, tugging on his curls until it looked painful.

"Sherlock, it's alright. You did a much better job than the police. If you can't figure it out than no one can," She reassured him, even though her own, private hopes at finding eternal peace were dashed. It hurt Marie more to see Sherlock in such despair than it did to have the mystery of her murder hanging over her. Besides- she was already dead- nothing could change that now.

"You don't understand!" Sherlock nearly yelled. "It's _not _ok, Marie! I wanted to solve this for you, to make it better for you. I can always do this, I've always been able to solve crimes and now…" He trailed off hopelessly, staring at her, even though he couldn't see her, with eyes that shone with tears. He swiped them away angrily, as if he was horrified that his body had betrayed him. She stayed still for a moment, glad that Sherlock couldn't see her. It was slightly surprising to see just how much he cared about Marie. What's more, it was surprising that Sherlock had let go of his usually very strict self-control to show the emotion he felt. It twisted at Marie's heart to see how much showing emotion hurt Sherlock, why, she didn't know. With his confession, Marie shimmered into his spectrum and floated over to him, sinking onto one knee so that he was taller than she was. It was the closest they had every got, but the usually screaming need for energy that Marie usually felt was diminished by her love and affection for Sherlock.

"Sherlock Holmes, you listen here." Marie told him softly. "You are a brilliant young man. You know it, I know it; everyone knows it. It is absolutely incredible that you are, but you don't always have to be. There is more to you than just intelligence, Sherlock, and that's what makes you special. If I made a mistake in the bakery, if I didn't get a truffle _just _right, I always had the opportunity to do it again. So do you. You will get another shot at solving cases, Sherlock, and I know that you will excel." Marie tried her best to tell Sherlock what he had clearly been never told before. She was slightly appalled that his parents had never told Sherlock about how amazing he was. It was clear that they'd set high standards for him and had praised his intelligence, but to them, he had never been more than that. It was clear to Marie that he was more than just a brain, and she wanted Sherlock to see what she saw. Her little detective stared at her with wide, vulnerable silver eyes. There was such a churning chasm of emotion in his eyes that Marie wasn't sure if she'd helped Sherlock or hurt him until he spoke.

"But I wanted to help _you. _I wanted to make a difference." He said, starting to get the sniffles as the threat of a crying fight diminished. He quickly pulled himself together, as if his admission of emotion had made him weak, as if it needed to be hidden as quickly as possible. Marie smiled, but it was sad. Helping Sherlock with solving (or, rather, _trying _to solve) her case had brought Marie to the conclusion and acceptance of her murder and her death. It was horrible, awful, and not at all fair that she'd been needlessly killed, but there was nothing she or anyone could do about it.

"Sherlock, it may have made a difference to you, but it wouldn't have for me. I'm still dead, dear," she told him affectionately, wishing at the same time that she wasn't with all of her dead, shot heart. Sherlock cocked his head, looking at Marie, seeing her logic but also seeing the emotion she tried to hide. The two of them stared at each other for a moment. Sherlock was utterly relieved that Marie was still his friend, even though he'd failed her and even though he'd completely broken down for no reason other than stupid, interfering sentiment. However, he was now curious and slightly impressed with how Marie had come to terms with her death. Unbeknownst to her, he had done research on ghosts, trying to separate fact from fiction. He had read about ghosts finding solace and then 'moving on' to a better place. Sherlock had hoped that along with the distraction for his boredom, he would have been able to make a difference and help Marie right the wrong.

"I thought it would help you find some sort of peace." He said finally, sounding a bit distracted even to himself as he tried to throw his thoughts together, and blinked a few times, looking down. Marie took a deep breath.

"Some ghosts find it right away, some find it later on, and some never find that equilibrium, Sherlock. I may have a chance to find it later on, to move on to that eternal rest, and I may not. If a chance ever comes up, you can help me, I promise. This could have been our one shot, but then again, we could be completely wrong. I guess we'll never know." Marie admitted softly, hating how not knowing if she was doomed to walk the Earth forever terrified her to her very soul.

"You'll stay?" Sherlock asked, swiping his nose, sounding shocked, but also sounding his age for once. As Marie spoke, Sherlock had thought for sure that because he had failed that Marie would leave him. He'd been terrified of losing his best friend, even if he had only ever meant to conduct business with his ghostly pal. Logically, she had no reason to stay, and that confused him. Why would Marie want to stay with someone who had failed her?

"Only if you want me to, Sherlock," Marie backtracked, realizing that she'd spoken under the assumption that she would continue to stay with Sherlock, even though the case had gone cold. For someone reason, she could still see how bothered Sherlock still was that he hadn't solved the case, and she wanted him to know that it really was ok. Besides, Sherlock was the only person in the world she had. She could befriend other ghosts, that was true, and she had (Thomas visited often), but Sherlock was _real. _She enjoyed his presence more than any other.

"Why do you want to stay? There's nothing for you here," Sherlock argued, confused as his mind attacked a new puzzle. Marie shot him a slightly sad look.

"Sherlock, you're my friend. I know that you initially engaged this…relationship because you wanted to solve my case, but I really like your company. This isn't about getting something out of it." Marie told him, and Sherlock blinked furiously, his mind whirling into overdrive. Marie had said it! Marie had said that he was her friend- and she was his friend! Before he could stop it, tears leaked out of his lids and streaked down his face. His first friend, the person who understood him and liked him, was going to stay.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?" Marie asked, reaching out and catching herself just in time from brushing tears away from his face. She pulled her hand away as if burned, gripping her bloodstained blouse tightly as a reminder that she couldn't touch him.

"I'm your friend?" He needed confirmation, even though Marie had just said so. He had always been hated, or misunderstood, or ignored, and he couldn't believe that this time he could trust in someone else. Marie laughed softly, wishing that she could reach out and comfort Sherlock, draw him in close and wipe his tears, straighten his mussed hair. A tear of her own wormed its way out of her lashes to streak down her cheek.

"Of course you are." She told him, and Sherlock's first instinct was to throw himself at Marie for a hug. He felt a pang of hurt shoot through him when she scrambled back, eyes blowing wide. "I'm sorry, Sherlock; I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," she apologized instantly, starting to cry. "I want to, I want to hug you, I do; I wish I could, but I can't. I'm sorry," Marie begged for forgiveness, clenching her arms over her stomach and fisting her hands into her shirt at her hips as if she was in a straightjacket. She had felt, for the first time, the steady pulsing of Sherlock's soul, and, in response, a carnal hunger had erupted in her that she couldn't control, even though she loved Sherlock and didn't want to hurt him. She bowed her head in shame and grief, never wanting to touch someone more in her entire life than she did then.

"Marie, wait!" Sherlock cried, and it took that cry for her to realize that she was slowly disappearing. "It's alright. I know." He told her, swallowing visibly as he stowed his ridiculous fear away. "Please, don't go," he requested, and Marie let out a sob, flickering slightly.

"Sherlock, if I told you that even though you're m-my friend- that I'm still alone- would you understand?" Marie whispered, sinking into a heap on the floor. There was a painful beat of silence as Sherlock pondered her question, wishing that he could use his brilliant mind somehow to help Marie, even though he knew that there was nothing he could do.

"More than you know," Sherlock told her, feeling his heart pinch with sentiment for the third time that evening. Sherlock had his experiments, his family, but he still felt isolated, as if he was separated from everyone around him by a bubble that couldn't be penetrated. His family loved him in their own way, he knew, but they were still so painfully separate. After a moment, Marie flickered as she raised her head, wiping away tears to offer Sherlock a weak, sad smile.

"Look at the two of us," She said softly, floating gracefully to her feet. Barely a second later, her eyes flashed to the door and she vanished abruptly, having sensed more life coming- Sherlock's mother. Sherlock had just enough time to drape the poster over his case and school his expression to a thoughtful one. He pretended to be considering the periodic table as Mummy peeked her head in and tisked.

"It's late, Sherlock. Go to bed- you have school tomorrow." She told him affectionately, proud that her son was learning and studying even that late at night.

"Yes, Mummy," Sherlock said obediently, and she smiled fondly at him, ducking in to plant a kiss to his mussed curls, completely missing his slightly reddened eyes, nose and cheeks from where he'd been crying. "Goodnight," he wished her as she went to close the door.

"Goodnight, Sherlock." She told him, before shutting his door. Sherlock waited until her steps had retreated before turning around to face the room.

"Marie?" He questioned, and the air near the window shimmered in response and Marie slowly reappeared, nearly blending into the moonlight. "Thank you," he told her, and through the moonlight, he saw her smile.

"You're welcome, Sherlock. And thank _you," _she added, her voice quiet and controlled again. "Now, you really should get some sleep. We can't have you dozing off in class, now can we?" She told him, and Sherlock scowled. He hated bedtime- he always had. He hated waiting to fall asleep- his mind usually never shut up and then he didn't sleep anyway.

"Class is pointless. The teacher is incompetent and my classmates are ridiculous," Sherlock griped, going to gather his pajamas anyway. "Will you stay?" He asked, almost without realizing, when he noticed how Marie had started to disappear again. She rippled with surprise and uncertainty.

"For a little while," She acquiesced, thinking of how much time she'd already spent with Sherlock today. The need was starting to make her uneasy, but she knew that she could resist for a while longer. "I'll be back," she promised when she rippled again. Sherlock instantly understood, and gave her a brief nod. He was also mentally keeping track of how long Marie stayed with him, noting how she was able to remain at his side for longer and longer periods of time. Marie smiled gratefully and vanished. The room warmed up again as Sherlock got ready for bed, contemplating all that had happened in such a short time.

Marie, on the other hand, practiced using the spectrums for a bit and channeled herself down to Death Valley in the United States to soak up heat and sun until her need for life died down. She found it secretly amusing that she had to go to a desert, a place almost completely devoid of life, in order to find the life she needed. Once she was full up and glowing, Marie used the spectrums to go back to Sherlock's room. She appeared slowly, worried that he'd be sleeping and that her light would wake him up, but Sherlock was sitting cross-legged on his bed, waiting for her to come back. "Enjoying your sunbathing?" He asked, slipping under the covers only when she materialized completely.

"Death Valley is lovely this time of year," Marie told him, and he chuckled, curling onto his side to study Marie with eyes that were just as inquisitive as they had been the first time he saw her as a ghost.

"Will you tell me more about ghosts?" Sherlock asked, and Marie seemed to hesitate, curling into a neat ball on the floor. She didn't dare solidify and sit down at Sherlock's desk- she hadn't tried being solid around him yet and she didn't want to hurt him.

"I'll tell you about Thomas, shall I?" Marie offered, and Sherlock blinked, letting her know that he found the topic interesting. "I was sitting at my grave, thinking about you and how you were going to come back to the graveyard to see me after our first meeting. I was practicing solidifying and touching things, and I was working on lifting a stone when Thomas appeared. He gave me a scare," Marie laughed as softly as she'd spoken, remembering how she'd shot through spectrums, some she hadn't even noticed before in her fear. "He was the one who told me about the rules. A representative of the Ghost Council, he called himself. Thomas answered any questions I had and warned me of all the dangers of the afterlife. He visits me once and awhile, checks up on how I'm doing." Marie told Sherlock, who had closed his eyes and curled up in his blankets, very near sleep. Marie's quiet, comforting voice, even though it was a bit sad, was helping Sherlock drift off. His Mummy had never read him stories before bed, and he found the whole process very nice.

"What does he look like?" Sherlock asked sleepily, and Marie almost reached out to smooth his hair. Almost. Once again, she stopped herself at the last second.

"Thomas is from the early 1900's, he must be. He's wearing an old pinstripe suit, brown, with a waistcoat and everything. He has a burgundy dress shirt on underneath, and a grey bowler hat and trench coat. His shoes are leather, dark brown. Thomas keeps track of which spirit he has to visit next with his old pocket-watch that he winds every time he sees me." Marie almost told Sherlock how Thomas had died, but she thought that murder wouldn't fit into a bedtime story, even for a child as unique and fascinated by it as Sherlock. She wanted him to have pleasant dreams. She paused for a moment, noting that Sherlock had drifted off and was sleeping soundly. "Goodnight, Sherlock. Pleasant dreams," Marie whispered, getting up off the floor. She considered going back to the graveyard, but, at the last second, she went up to the third floor of the Holmes Manor, seeking out Mycroft instead.

She hadn't visited (or haunted, depending on your point of view) Mycroft since she'd been murdered, and all of her talk about loneliness with Sherlock had brought back those feelings of love and regret she had for Mycroft. If only she'd taken the initiative and kissed him more! Told him how much she cared! The 'coulda-woulda-shoulda' was crippling her, and it only got worse when she found Mycroft in his room, reading. "Oh god, Mycroft," she whispered, staying perfectly still at the foot of his bed. He was propped against the headboard, a light on behind him, scanning the pages of _Great Expectations. _Marie could tell that the story had no interest for him and that he wasn't even reading; he was just going through the motions. Marie carefully, so carefully, sat on the foot of his bed, inches away from his legs, clenching her teeth when the need burned. She wasn't completely solid, just from the waist down, but the burn was already incredibly strong. "I love you, Mycroft. I won't say that I 'loved' you- just because I died doesn't mean that I can't love you anymore." She told him in a whisper, once she could relax a bit, having adjusted to the ache for life in her chest. Mycroft seemed to stiffen slightly, his eyes flicking to the door, thinking that he heard Sherlock out of bed, or Mummy coming up to tell him to sleep. That act sent fondness and every ounce of love she'd ever felt for Mycroft pouring out of her. "I'm sorry I never told you how much I love you. I'm sorry I never told you to ignore the gossip; I'm sorry that I never grabbed you across the counter in the bakery and kissed you, even if I had customers." Marie cut herself off when Mycroft's head slowly rose, confusion and a touch of fear on his face as he looked right through her. "Don't be scared, please don't be." Marie added, a pang of sadness coursing through her.

"Marie?" Mycroft nearly mouthed, as if he was afraid to whisper her name out loud. Marie rippled in shock, nearly falling through the bed as her surprise nearly broke her concentration. Mycroft had _heard _her? How? She threw her thoughts back together, gathering her concentration again.

"Yes, I'm here." She whispered, and Mycroft turned an impressive shade of white. "Don't be scared, please. You're not ill, or asleep, or hallucinating. I'm not here to hurt you, either." Marie told him, sadness permeating her tone when every inch of Mycroft went rigid.

"This is impossible." He told himself, closing his novel and rubbing his face, even going as far as to give his cheek a fairly good slap.

"How can I prove it to you when you can't see me?" Marie whispered, half to herself, looking around for inspiration. She found it moments later on Mycroft's nightstand. There was a bookmark and a pen, along with a leather bound journal. She slid off the bed and Mycroft shivered a bit, feeling the change in the air. Gathering her strength, Marie picked up the pen and signed her name on the bookmark. She set the pen down and immediately retreated to the farthest corner of the room, wrapping herself up again in an effort not to touch or take or kill. Mycroft was staring at the bookmark, watching the ink dry with wide eyes. "I've seen how sad you are, Mycroft. Please don't be. I want you to know that you were the greatest, most human, and best man that I ever knew, and that I won't stop loving you, not ever." Marie told him, her voice choking up with tears. Mycroft swung his legs off the bed, standing up, his eyes searching fruitlessly for any sort of sign of Marie. "You deserve happiness, Mycroft. Be exactly who you want to be. Don't ever wait." She pressed her hand to her face to muffle a sob; this was about getting Mycroft to move on, to be happy. She had all of eternity to do so, but Mycroft had a beautiful life left, one that he shouldn't waste.

"Marie- I," He struggled for words, sentiment clogging his throat. Marie had been the first person to treat his family normally, treat _him _normally, and her kindness, even from beyond the grave, shocked him, made him love her more than ever. "I want to see you." He managed, trying to keep his voice steady, and Marie fought down the urge to suck out his soul, standing up straight and wiping tears off her face. She knew what she had to do now. She had to muster up the energy to make herself visible, and then she had to make Mycroft believe that she had moved on. It was the only way to protect him, even if it hurt.

"I don't have much time," She told him, and that was true. The burning was becoming unbearable. Taking in a deep breath, Marie closed her eyes and focused, counted every particle in her body, and slowly _pushed _them towards the one spectrum she hadn't been able to cross into- the one that all humans could see. To Mycroft, out of thin air, wisps of white began to appear, forming and twisting into an image he knew very, very well. She was flickering, glowing just barely, and had a horrid, awful splotch of blood on her chest, but the ghostly image in front of him was Marie. With what looked like to be a lot of effort, Marie raised her head and opened her eyes, giving Mycroft a sad smile. "I love you," She told him and he reached out a hand to touch, hardly aware of what he was doing. He wanted to wipe her tears, wipe away the blood and the bullet wound; he wanted to kiss her and hold her close all at once. He wanted to fix her. "Don't forget, Myc. Be happy." She told him, flickering more now, like a TV set losing reception.

Despite writing her name and appearing to Mycroft, Marie wanted him to remember, forever, that she was real and that she loved him- and the only way to get that message across was to touch. Raising a trembling hand, letting her feet and legs start to wisp away, Marie solidified just her hand and lowered it into Mycroft's. The life in his skin burned at hers, and it took all of her strength not to leap away from him. Instead, for his sake, she vanished slowly until she was back in the graveyard, cradling her searing hand and crying.

* * *

**A/N: Angst up the whazoo. Sorry about that. Sherlock couldn't solve Marie's case- and the murderer is still at large...but who is it? I've dropped hints- can you find them? More goodness to come; I'm about to take you all on a journey through Sherlock's childhood. **

**bitchinblackframedglasses**


	5. Chapter 5

After their emotionally charged evening, Sherlock had expected to see Marie the next day, but she didn't appear, and he just _knew _that she wasn't there. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary- Mycroft was still cold and silent, even more so than before, and his parents were still as detached as ever. School was boring, especially without Marie. After school, Father suggested that he and Mycroft go to Oxford, but Mycroft refused so vehemently that it surprised even Father, who had forgotten that on the way home Mycroft always used to stop at the pastry shop to see Marie. Sherlock worried and fretted all day until he could sneak out at about midnight to go to Rose Hill Cemetery. He weaved through the graves until he came to Marie's. Someone had come by and left flowers, a bouquet of white roses. Sherlock looked at them for a long moment, waiting for Marie, but she still didn't appear. "Marie, are you here?" Sherlock asked, trying to sense her presence. If he really thought about it and kept track of the temperature, he could usually determine when Marie was near; things always got colder. However, Sherlock was outside, and it was slightly windy, making it impossible for him to get an accurate starting temperature. "Marie, please, I need to talk to you." Sherlock tried again, sitting on her gravestone, knowing that Marie liked to hang around it while he usually stood at the foot of her grave.

"Sherlock, I can't talk tonight. You should leave." Marie's disembodied voice, from somewhere Sherlock couldn't track, made his skin crawl. She sounded awful.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock pounced instantly, but there was no reply. "Marie, you're my friend. You came to me when I was upset, and I want to do the same for you. Friends protect friends." He argued stubbornly.

"Sherlock, I told you to go!" Marie's voice snarled in such a frighteningly sad tone that Sherlock nearly fell off the gravestone. What had happened to his friend? Sherlock wanted to find the culprit and hurt them, get them in trouble, like Mycroft would do for him when someone picked on him. Mycroft was free to pick on him at any time, but if anyone else tried to hurt Sherlock, Mycroft was there with a vengeance. Sherlock had never understood why, but now he did.

"No." Sherlock declared, resolute. He set his jaw and crossed his arms. A voice in the back of his mind warned him that Marie could want to suck out his life and his soul, and that it was possible that she was going to, but his loyalty outweighed his fear.

"Sherlock, I can't control myself tonight. Go home." Marie sounded strained as she spoke a moment later, but Sherlock knew that it wasn't from the effort of not killing him. There was emotional strain in her voice, not physical.

"You're lying." Sherlock nearly talked over her, raising his voice to show that he meant business. "I can tell that something's bothering you. What's wrong?" He repeated.

"Sherlock, I- this is too deep for you. You shouldn't be burdened with this seeing as how young you are." Marie's voice was quieter now, full of more despair than before, and Sherlock knew that he'd won the argument.

"How do you know? I already dissect body parts and study murders and read about all sorts of horrible awful things, like wars and genocide and racism." He argued, and Marie appeared so suddenly he nearly fell of her headstone backwards.

"Don't you ever listen?" She hissed exasperated. It was clear that she'd been crying- and she wasn't glowing at all, not even a little bit. Her hands were stuffed in her pockets, her shoulders hunched. "What if I really wanted to kill you, Sherlock? What if you hadn't listened and then your parents, your brother, everyone who cared about you- what if they had to find your body- what then? What if you had to become a ghost and watch your family, your friends, mourn you when you could do nothing? How do you think I would feel, having accidentally killed my only friend?" When Marie said 'your brother', her voice cracked, and by the end of her rant, she'd turned her face away from him, her auburn hair covering her face.

"What happened?" Sherlock asked when he'd found his voice again, deciding to disregard her speech to get to the truth. He knew that it involved Mycroft somehow, and that made him uneasy. Suddenly, Mycroft's coldness that day seemed magnified, until he marveled how he'd missed the signs that something was wrong with his brother too. Marie let out a slightly strangled laugh, the sound choked by sadness.

"I did something wrong, something horrible." She whispered finally, still not looking at him. "I- after you fell asleep yesterday, I went up to see your brother instead of leaving. He couldn't see me at first, but I learned out the hard way that he could hear me." She paused, shoulders hunching further. "I- I've seen how sad he's been, and I wanted to change that. So I told him that I was happy and moving on and I let him see me, just for a moment."

"But you're not happy!" Sherlock cried, and then his thoughts caught up with him, the selflessness of Marie's actions becoming clear. She'd sacrificed her own happiness to see his brother move on when she was stuck behind. "Oh," Sherlock whispered, looking at his hands. If he hadn't trusted Marie before, he did then. He couldn't think of anyone else who had ever cared for his brother so much as Marie did, and that made him oddly happy. Suddenly, he knew exactly who the white roses were from, even if he had no facts to prove it, and Marie's warning about it being 'too deep' made perfect sense. He had never come across such complicated loyalty and love, and he didn't completely understand it.

"It gets worse." Marie admitted softly. "I touched your brother."

"What?" Sherlock asked without realizing, surprised. For a moment, his mind made the stupid assumption that Marie had done something to Mycroft on accident. After all, Marie had done nothing but warn Sherlock of the dangers of her presence, let alone becoming solid enough to touch a human being. To his surprise, Marie laughed softly, turning back to face him, and Sherlock chided himself for ever thinking that Marie could hurt anybody. He may have been a genius, but his naïve ten year old self thought that just because Marie was nice she wouldn't hurt anyone.

"I know. Crazy, isn't it? But it was a lesson learned." Marie told him, trying to inject life into her voice. Any emotion other than sadness or bitterness would do, but Sherlock saw right through it.

"Did something happen? You said that it was against the rules! Are you in trouble?" Sherlock fired off, sliding off the gravestone to assess Marie for injuries.

"No, no trouble. Not yet. I did hurt myself though, just a little. Now I know why I'm not supposed to touch humans, not without being prepared, anyway." Marie said reassuringly, trying to brush him off. Unfortunately, that only triggered the 'deduce' mechanism in Sherlock, and he figured out what was wrong in seconds.

"Your hands." He identified sharply, and Marie sighed, having known that it was useless to try and hide anything from Sherlock. "What happened?" The little detective added, his tone signaling that he wouldn't take 'nothing' for an answer.

"I'll show you, but remember that you can't touch me, Sherlock. Ok? Stay there." Marie warned him, and this time, Sherlock listened. He nodded furiously to show that he understood. Marie judged him a moment more before removing her left hand first, unmarred, before using it to gently ease her right out of her pocket. Upon seeing it, Sherlock's face grew stony- his reaction to seeing a friend in pain. The top of her hand was grey, and her palm was completely black, as if burnt. He was glad for Marie's reminder to stay put- he wanted to run forward and examine the damage.

"Does it hurt?" He asked, and Marie hesitated again.

"I can't describe how it feels. It hurts…but it's more than that. It's like my hand absorbed that life coming out of Mycroft's skin, life that I didn't have to take…and it lived for that amount of time. When I let go- it was like a burn, like my hand died again. It felt awful." Marie decided to be completely honest with Sherlock, knowing that if she tried to leave anything out, he would find out anyway, somehow.

"You should go sun it. That might help." Sherlock only spoke when he knew that his voice would be steady. His heart knew that it was cruel for Marie to get hurt from touching someone she loved, but his head hadn't quite caught up yet, which left him with nothing but logic.

"I wish I could take you with me," Marie copied Sherlock, waiting to speak until she knew that she could act like nothing had happened. "I'd take you everywhere, show you the world. We could be in Africa one second and then Iceland the next. I could take you anywhere you wanted to go." She told him, knowing that Sherlock would love to travel, to meet and deduce new people, to gather data about his world.

"I wish I could go too. Can you bring me back things?" Sherlock asked, and Marie pondered his question.

"I don't know. I'll have to try later, but not now. It's late." Marie insisted, and Sherlock huffed, crossing his arms. Marie walked him home, as usual, and only when she knew that he was safe and sound did she stay, just for a moment, outside of Mycroft's window. He was asleep for once, and looked peaceful, even though he was clutching his blankets like his life depended on it. With images of Mycroft dancing through her mind, Marie went to the Sonoran Desert and stayed there for a long time, absorbing the heat that was baking off of the ground. It helped a lot, until her hand was only light grey and she felt much better about her decision to keep Mycroft in ignorance for the sake of keeping him as happy as possible. It would hurt her for the rest of her life, especially with Mycroft remaining so close to Sherlock, but she felt in her heart that it would be better for Mycroft. Before Marie left, she managed to uproot a tiny little Saguaro cactus (it took a lot of effort, so much that she had to sun for a few hours to replenish herself) and took a handful of sandy dirt back with her. Traveling with the cactus and the dirt took effort but she was able to get it back to England. She was able to get a small, cracked pot out of the greenhouse of the Holmes Estate, and she spent all day potting it carefully. Only when she was sure that the little cactus was going to live, she got it up to Sherlock's room and left it on his nightstand. As the years passed, she brought him plants and fossils and etchings and bark from all over the world. She got stronger, more sensitive, and more powerful as each year went by, until she was able to start pushing things with her mind. She got Sherlock out of trouble quite a few times, considering that he had taken her label of 'consulting detective' to heart.

At nineteen, Sherlock went to his second college, having graduated from his first a year before. He was ripping through doctorate degrees like they were nothing, and despite his one true friend, Sherlock was miserable. Everyone seemed to hate him, look down at him. He couldn't understand why their pathetically predictable lives were better than his, and that led him down the path to drugs. First, it was marijuana, and only when he knew that Marie wouldn't be there. It slowed him down, helped him mellow and relax, if only for a little while. Besides, Marie hated that he smoked cigarettes, and he reasoned that cannabis was more organic anyway. Once marijuana got boring, Sherlock bumped himself up to cocaine, which cleared his mind but didn't slow him down. He was doing an excellent job hiding it until his twentieth birthday.

On that day, Marie had avoided Sherlock. When they had first met, she had 10 years on him. She'd slightly taken over the position of being his mother after it became clear to Marie that Sherlock's mother cared, but she didn't love. Ten years had flown by, and in that time, she had watched Sherlock grow into a man, and it hurt. She was forever stuck at twenty years old, and while Sherlock had been young, she hadn't minded. Now, as Sherlock turned the same age as her, she was painfully aware that his life was slipping away and that she would watch him age and then die. With the way Sherlock acted, she knew that she only had maybe forty years, probably less, to spend with Sherlock before he died. It sickened Marie that she hoped that he would become a ghost (no one should be subjected to that kind of torture, in her opinion), and yet she wished it with all her might. If Sherlock left her, she truly was alone, and that terrified her. That's why, when Marie finally popped in to see Sherlock at about eight at night, she had expected to act like nothing was wrong and to wish him a Happy Birthday. She did not expect, however, to find him sitting on the floor, tying his arm up with a rubber tourniquet, a suspicious syringe lying next to him, along with a candle, an empty plastic bag, and a spoon. Marie flashed into visibility, absolute fury rising in her veins. "Sherlock, what the _hell _are you doing?!" She yelled loud enough for Sherlock to drop the tourniquet. Marie had never yelled at him, not once.

"Celebrating," he drawled, picking up the tourniquet again with shaking fingers. He needed his fix. Badly.

"Excuse me? Sherlock, I cannot _believe _you! You have so much life left in you- the fact that you have a life to being with should have you protecting it! But, no! You have to go and _waste _it like you'll live forever and then pass on without consequences! _Why are you killing yourself?!" _Marie raged, and the window panes started to rattle. Sherlock had seen basic demonstrations of Marie's power (she was very good at passing him pens and the like), but he had never seen her this angry and he had never known just how much power she had.

"It's my life, Marie. I'll do what I like with it." Sherlock told her sharply, and then he had to cover his face from shards of glass as the syringe full of his newest invention (heroin and cocaine mixed together) exploded violently. When he dared to peek out from underneath his arm, he saw that Marie was actually trembling with rage and that the air was actually _writhing _around her. "Marie," he cautioned quietly, all ideas of getting a fix vanishing from his mind. He could feel blood streaking down his face from where a shard of glass had scraped his cheekbone, but he ignored it. When he spoke, it seemed to snap her out of it. The air stopped writhing, the windows stopped shaking in their frames, and Marie looked absolutely terrified. Marie was more than aware that certain ghosts, called Inspectors, watched urban areas closely. If there was a spike in ghostly energy, they would find it and investigate, to make sure that ghosts weren't taking humans. The energy she had given off was more than enough to call one there- and that meant she had to act- and fast. She was suddenly right in front of Sherlock, the action so quick it blew out his candle.

"You don't know me, Sherlock, and you can't see me. _Don't acknowledge me. _Promise. Promise me!" She begged, and he'd just blinked assent when she stood up and headed for the window. Not seconds later, another ghost appeared.

This ghost was a man, small and thin, but he seemed to radiate confidence. He was dressed in early clothing, probably from the seventeenth century. "Marie Williamson?" He called out to her, and she stopped, turning and greeting the ghost calmly. It took all of Sherlock's willpower to gather up the shards of glass and his empty baggie without looking at Marie. The adrenaline in his system was better than his drugs, but it was tainted with fear. Why had Marie insisted so severely that Sherlock ignore her? "Doing alright?" The other ghost asked, inspecting Sherlock carefully as he crossed the room to get another baggie of drugs, as if looking for something in particular.

"Fine, thanks. And you?" Marie asked conversationally, if not a bit curiously. She was a good actress, Sherlock noted. Very good.

"Ah, well, you know- the strains of the job and all of that. Speaking of which- what are you doing here?" The man was suddenly all business, watching Marie like a hawk. Marie sighed, casting one burning look at Sherlock, who focused on cooking his drugs with all of his might.

"I know I shouldn't be here, especially in such a densely populated place, but I couldn't help it. I saw him walking, buying drugs, and it made me angry. Why should they get to throw their lives away by choice?" She asked, her eyes burning into Sherlock's back.

"You followed him here. Why? What was your intent?" The Inspector asked, drawing closer to Marie. It just then occurred to Sherlock that Marie had warned him that their relationship broke every rule in the book, and that one day she might get caught. Fear settled on his chest as he calculated the possibility of the new ghost being from the Ghost Council. The chances were very, very good, which sent more panic into his heart.

"I just- I wanted to stop him somehow. Possibly save his life. I- I couldn't- I didn't want him to die." Marie struggled to find the words, real emotion choking her tone. Sherlock realized right then and there that Marie must have felt horrible upon coming back to find him shooting up. He was all she had, he knew, and he suddenly felt so guilty for nearly taking himself away from her just because he was bored.

"Do you know him, Marie? Did you know him when you were alive?" the ghost questioned, and Marie shook her head silently. Then, the ghost suddenly shot forward, his hand disappearing inside Marie. She gasped, suddenly becoming frozen, flickering around the edges, and Sherlock nearly leapt out of his skin as he saw, out of the corner of his eye, a small, glowing orb trapped in the other ghost's fingers, just under Marie's chest where she'd been shot.

"Don't. Lie. To. Me." The Inspector hissed, suddenly terrifying. "I can feel residual life on you- you didn't take any, not from him, but you've been haunting him. Following him. You've been _associating with a human, _haven't you? Have you made yourself visible? Talked to him? Been his friend?" The ghost hissed, and he squeezed the little orb and Marie shuddered and flickered, not unfreezing, but turning an impressive shade of white for someone who was already so pale all the time. "Well, that's not for me to decide. The Ghost Council will hear your case." He told her, and in a flash, him still holding her fast by the _soul, _the two ghosts vanished. Sherlock painstakingly finished cooking a new batch and loaded his syringe, hands shaking, but not from his need. He set the syringe down and stared at it, aware that the ghost could have come back, invisible, to watch him for associations he might have to Marie. Instead of shooting up, however, he went and dug out a pack of smokes. He had to make his drug stash last anyway. He chain-smoked the first two out of worry he wasn't outwardly showing for Marie, but slowed down for the third.

If Marie was shredded, if she never came back, what would he do? She was his only friend. He would have no one to tell if Marie was killed (again). He would be utterly alone.

Halfway across the world, Marie was standing in an abandoned factory that served as the judicial court of the Ghost Council. Three ghosts were standing in a half circle, watching her, judging her, as she told a version of the truth- that she had known Sherlock for a long time while she was alive, and that she checked up on him often to make sure that he was ok. She told them what was obvious- that she loved Sherlock and had never hurt him, touched him, or solidified around him- not once. She had been very careful and was more than aware of the consequences, emotional and physical if she was to hurt Sherlock.

It was hard for her to talk. She was still terrified for Sherlock, horrified that he was doing something like that to himself. She was worried that the ghost who had taken her had gone back to stare at Sherlock, to watch him. Finally, she felt like she could barely breathe- she could barely stay solid, even. That ghost, that evil, horrible ghost, had reached in and grabbed her soul like it was a piece of fruit to be plucked off a tree. His grip had paralyzed her, even though shooting, wracking pains possessed her body. She had never felt so weak in her whole life- and then she had to be patient, had to tell her story calmly to the three ghosts that would decide her fate. They left her floating there, shivering and flickering, as they debated.

"She associated with a human. Repeatedly. She must be shredded." Ghost 1 said resolutely.

"Oh, come now. I for one know that you visit your mother all the time, just like this girl has done to her friend or boyfriend or whatever. All ghosts do it, regardless of the law. She's done nothing wrong." Ghost 2 argued, earning himself a dirty look from Ghost 1.

"She lied. She has touched a human, but it wasn't the one she was caught with. She touched her lover, just once. I can see it in her hand. She didn't kill the lover, however, and she hasn't done it since." The third ghost, an ancient, decrepit one, spoke up and effectively silenced the other two.

"Then she must be shredded! She _touched _a human!" Ghost 1 spluttered, pointing at Marie accusingly.

"She didn't have the intent to take him, though, and she's displayed no malicious intent to harm anyone since. Give her a warning and an isolation and send her on her way." Ghost 2 nearly talked over him, and they bickered for several minutes. Ghost 3, however, watched Marie calmly, as if he was waiting for his comrades to finish. He seemed used to it. Finally, they decided to vote.

"Fragmentation." Ghost 1 voted.

"Isolation." Ghost 2 voted.

"Isolation." Ghost 3 agreed, although reluctantly.

Ghost 1 looked awfully disappointed as the same ghost who had grabbed Marie's soul reappeared and took her by the arm. Before she had a chance to say anything else, he tugged her across several spectrums until she was suddenly in one she'd never been in before simply because she didn't have the energy to cross into it- only older, more experienced ghosts could access it. The land was cold, and dark. _Antarctica. _"After three days I'll be back to get you. Any attempts to leave will result in fragmentation. Sit tight." He ordered, and then he vanished, looking grateful to be out of the cold. Shivering, Marie massaged her cold, sore chest from where he'd grabbed her soul and looked around her in despair. The sun wouldn't reach this part of the planet, and she couldn't leave for another three days.

Marie curled up on the snowy ground, shivering faster now. She needed to somehow get word to Sherlock, and she needed to see that he was ok. But how? It took three hours of shivering for her to settle on her only hope.

Sir Thomas Klinberg.

He was a member of the Ghost Council, and had access to this spectrum. They had remained good friends over the years, and she knew that if he saw her desperation, he would go to Sherlock and pass on a message. Focusing her mental energy, Marie located Thomas telepathically. It took far too much effort, but it had to be done, for Sherlock's sake.

_Thomas? I need your help. It's urgent. _She told him, and it took a moment for his reply to come back.

_Marie, are you alright? Why can't I locate you? _He prodded instantly for information, his thoughts slightly distressed, until he figured it out. _Marie, why are you in isolation? What happened? _He demanded worriedly.

_Do you remember the little boy who would visit my grave? _Marie thought it was very unfair that her shivers could translate into her thoughts as well as she sent that to Thomas. _I keep an eye on him, protect him when I can. I found him about to shoot up drugs and I shattered his syringe in anger. That much power, exhibited in an urban area, his college, called in an Inspector. I need you to check on Sherlock. Please. _

_Jesus Christ, Marie. What were you thinking? He could have gotten you killed! _Thomas berated her.

_Please just tell him, Thomas. He's the only one who has ever cared about me. He'll be worried and I don't want him to think me dead._

_WHAT?! You've spoken to him? _Thomas sounded very close to an aneurysm at that point.

_Yes. _Marie shivered so hard the connection flickered and bucked. She held onto it desperately; if it broke, she wouldn't have the strength to contact Thomas again.

_They subdued you, didn't they? That's barbaric and illegal! _When Thomas spoke again, he sounded furious. _Which ghost was it? Which one took your soul in hand? I'll have him shredded. _

_I don't know his name. Please, just tell Sherlock I'm not dead. Please. _Marie was finding it hard to focus now. She was so cold. Everything was freezing and dark and empty.

_I'll tell him, Marie, and I'll be there when you get out. Hang in there. _Thomas promised, sounding more upset than ever, but he cut the link before Marie could thank him or comment on it. When the link broke, Marie was suddenly aware of how exhausted she was. With her mission accomplished, Marie allowed herself to drift away into oblivion.

* * *

**A/N: Marie's in some trouble, Sherlock's addicted to drugs, and what on god's green earth will happen next? **

**Next Chapter: Sherlock realizes he's made a mistake**


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock had made it through an entire pack of smokes and the sun was just rising when the shimmering started. Over in the corner, farthest away from Sherlock, the air wavered until a man appeared. Tall, dark, and handsome, in a brown pinstripe suit and a pocket watch in hand, Sherlock instantly recognized him from the story Marie had told him so long ago. "Sir Thomas Klinberg, is it? Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock introduced himself through the haze of his nicotine poisoning, sitting up straighter and watching the ghost with inquisitive eyes. He hadn't seen many ghosts other than Marie, and he found them all very fascinating. Thomas narrowed his eyes at Sherlock, stowing the pocket watch.

"You have no idea what you've done, have you?" The lawyer asked, staring at Sherlock. The suit he was wearing reminded Sherlock of Mycroft, which would not do. Not at all. It reminded him of Mycroft's arrogance, and a sneer fought to take over Sherlock's lips. "Marie was nearly fragmented just to protect you, and here you are, wallowing in your own filth, smoking and burning your life up as if it didn't have such incalculable value." Thomas snarled.

"Nearly?" Sherlock commented, stubbing his cigarette out viciously and sliding off the bed, worry permeating his tone. Guilt showed in every inch of his body, but it wasn't good enough for Thomas.

"Yes, nearly. It's a miracle she wasn't shredded, but she's alive. No thanks to you." Thomas barked, stepping closer. "She's in isolation and won't be released for three days." He spat the word 'isolation', knowing how awful it could be, especially at this time of year. He'd had plenty of ghosts that were on his register end up there- every agent did. He had gone to pick up one of his friends, a long time ago, who had since found the eternal peace and had left, so he knew that isolation was a horrid place. It was almost more cruel than shredding. Almost.

"What is isolation?" Sherlock fired off instantly, and Thomas grimaced.

"There are two locations- one is in the Arctic Circle and the other is in Antarctica. Ghosts are taken to a spectrum that only the strongest and oldest of ghosts can cross in and out of, and they are left there. Depending on the offense, some ghosts stay for a day and some stay for months. Marie got very lucky, but she will be weak. Don't expect to see her for a week at least." Thomas took off his hat, worrying the brim of it as he and Sherlock settled into grim silence.

"Does she still have her soul?" Sherlock asked, his voice a lot quieter and more frightened than he wanted it to be. He blamed the drugs later, but Thomas took it as a sign of true fear for a friend, which made him more lenient on Sherlock. He only raised a questioning eyebrow, wondering how the scrawny young adult in front of him had come to that conclusion. "The ghost that came to question her…he reached _into _Marie. He- he grabbed her soul in his hand. He squeezed it." Sherlock cited, the anger rising in his tone as quickly as it did in Thomas' face.

"Describe him at once. I was aware that Marie had been paralyzed, which is _illegal_, but not to such an extent, which is much more serious." Thomas ordered, and Sherlock relayed an incredibly detailed description, down to the stains on the man's clothes and the color of his eyes. Thomas took it all in and then nodded to Sherlock. He was still angry with him, a seemingly worthless human that had gotten Marie in trouble, but he was helping him bring the Inspector to justice.

"Thank you," Sherlock said finally, after a period of awkward, less tense silence. Thomas sighed, putting his hat back on and winding his watch.

"Of course. Marie seems very attached to you. I'll see to it that she heals." Thomas informed him, getting ready to depart. It seemed like both he and Sherlock were protective of Marie, but they couldn't protect her on their own. Thomas handled her physical aspects, whereas Sherlock was her mental and emotional support system. Maybe one day they could work together, but Thomas had the very pressing matter of getting an Inspector shredded to attend to. Sherlock said nothing and Sir Thomas Klinberg vanished without a trace, leaving Sherlock to his worries.

Three days is a long time in the absence of life or warmth. Time seemed to freeze and stop and go backwards in isolation, so much so that Marie didn't know if days or seconds had passed. If there were any other ghosts near her, she was so numbed and frozen that she couldn't tell. Through it all, there was a constant ache in her chest, where her soul was, that wracked her with shivers and agony. She would never forget how she had literally seen cosmos swirl in front of her eyes when the Inspector had squeezed her soul with all his might. It had been like the moments right before she'd been murdered all over again- there was the paralyzing fear, the desperation, and the mind-numbing pain. She wasn't even sure that she wasn't hallucinating when she suddenly felt Thomas in front of her, felt him rubbing her arms in an attempt to wake her up. "Marie? Can you hear me?" Thomas was glowing- he'd sunned for a full twelve hours before going to retrieve Marie. It had taken him two days to get the Inspector shredded, and so he'd barely had time to make the proper arrangements before picking Marie up.

"Thomas?" Marie had whispered, eyes flickering and then wincing against the light from Thomas' glow. She was used to the dark now, and light hurt.

"Yes, it's me. You're free to go and I'm getting you out of here. It'll hurt though, so just stay with me, ok?" Thomas told her, scooping her up before Marie could protest. In truth she was so weak that she didn't even realize Thomas was carrying her until they made out of the locked spectrum and back into the others. Thomas took her to the Andes Mountains. They were cold, but not freezing, like the Arctic. Even then Marie screwed up in a ball, gasping at the change of light and temperature. How she had ever been able to go to a desert was beyond her, then. Once Marie could lay flat on her back, exhausted (a process that took a day or two), Thomas picked her up again and took her to Seattle. It was cool there, but not cold. Once again, Marie went through the painful process of adjusting to the temperature.

"Thomas? Did you ever get to Sherlock?" Marie was finally able to whisper after Thomas took her to a temperate zone. She'd done nothing but gasp with pain for the past few days, and she sounded so distressed now that Thomas yearned to calm her down. When souls were damaged, so were ghosts, sometimes for years afterwards. Isolation wouldn't have been nearly as bad if Marie's soul hadn't been compressed.

"Yes, I did. Everything's fine." He soothed, squeezing her hand when she squeezed his.

"Thank you. Thank you so much, Thomas," she whispered, and his grip tightened.

"The Inspector who violated you was fragmented. I saw to it personally." Thomas told her, and Marie forced her eyes open, blinking at him with an expression confused with exhaustion. "How is your soul feeling now?" he asked, trying to remain brisk. Marie frowned, and her other hand slowly found its way to the bullet wounds on her chest. She rested it there, out of energy to do anything else.

"I feel shaken," she managed finally, still sounding confused. "I feel lost," she added, and Thomas' grip tightened further yet.

"Why do you care so much for that man? For Sherlock Holmes?" Thomas asked, and Marie smiled with her eyes closed, even though it was weak.

"He could see me. I was at my grave for the first time, my body freshly buried, and he could _see _me. He's never given up on me since." Marie whispered, her free hand clenching down over the bullet wound on her chest.

"Marie," Thomas sighed disapprovingly, scooping her up again. "Brace yourself," he told her, and then, quickly rippling through spectrums, Thomas took them to a rainforest. The effect was immediate- Marie _screamed_, curling into a ball and shuddering as the humidity and heat pressed down on her. Thomas, knowing that it was his duty, gathered Marie up into his arms to keep her from thrashing and hurting herself. They sat that way, crumpled onto the rainforest floor, for another day or so.

_Thomas- thank you. I could never do this alone. _Marie settled for telepathic conversation rather than actual talking- translating her thoughts into words would take too much energy when she was already so tired.

_What are friends for? _Thomas asked her quietly. He stayed with her throughout her ordeal, even when they went to a desert. To Marie, it felt as if her insides (mainly, her soul), was being kicked around like a football. When she finally did get over the heat change, she had to sun herself for several days. Thomas only had to leave once- and that was because he had rounds to make. He was still an agent of the Ghost Council and he still had responsibilities. Besides, all Marie was doing at that point was lying in sand-dunes, wincing as the sun went through every particle of her body.

It took Marie another several days to be able to stand up and go through spectrums on her own. Even with the constant sunning she was still pale, with hollowed eyes. She shivered all the time, and the edges of her being flickered without her permission. Despite how awful she still felt, Marie knew that Sherlock would be worried. She needed to see him, to know that he wasn't dying of an overdose on the floor of his room. Thomas was very wary, worried that Marie would lose focus in her weak state and try to take Sherlock, but Marie was adamant that she could handle it. After all, her strict self-restraint is what had saved her from being fragmented in the first place. "As long as you're sure." Thomas offered one last time, as they stood in the Gobi Desert, Marie getting ready to depart.

"If I can't handle it, I'll come back here." Marie told him, and Thomas offered her a reassuring smile. "Thank you. Again." Marie told him gratefully, and Thomas waved a dismissive hand.

"I am always at your disposal." He told her formally, unable to shake his heritage. With a shaky smile, Marie picked up a spectrum and disappeared. She would now be fragmented if it meant that she could protect Thomas- he had saved her life. If he hadn't worked her back into normality, she probably would have gone insane and would have joined the darker spirits of the world. Gathering her strength, Marie made it back to Sherlock's university and found his room, gritting her teeth at the onslaught of pain.

Sherlock was sitting on his bed, shaking and sweating, and yet staring determinedly at the wall across from him, flexing his fist around a stress-ball one would find in a therapist's office. He was clearly going through withdrawal, and yet Marie knew that he was doing it for her. Sherlock, with all of his senses on fire from his withdrawal, noticed the shimmering air that Marie was trying to force into masking her presence instantly, and he slid off the bed, eyes flicking over it. "Marie?" He questioned, sounding daringly hopeful. Unable to hold onto the air, Marie wisped together in front of Sherlock's horrified eyes. He instantly went to move forward, and Marie scuttled backwards, half passing through the wall before Sherlock stopped and backed off.

"Stay there," Marie cautioned uselessly now that the damage was done, voice hoarse. Never before had she wanted life more than that moment. Sherlock's heart and soul were thundering in an attempt to get over his narcotics abuse, and she could feel it, see the ripples it made in the air. The simple fact that he was _alive _tested her, and it hurt.

"What happened to you?" Sherlock fired off, voice terrible. He could do nothing- he couldn't get closer to Marie, he couldn't nurse her back to health, nothing. He had never felt so powerless, and he hated it. Marie grimaced, hugging herself when she flickered again.

"When a ghost expends too much energy near a pocket of life, such as your college campus, Inspectors are sent out to make sure that a ghost isn't taking human lives. I got so angry with you that I released that energy on accident, and an Inspector came." Marie whispered, and Sherlock made a frustrated noise, squeezing his stress ball until his hand ached.

"If I had recognized you, or his presence, you would have been shredded." Sherlock summed up, leaping to the end, and Marie nodded silently. "Thomas said that you nearly were, however. What happened, are you hurt? He mentioned something about _paralyzing, _and-!"

"Sherlock," Marie interrupted his increasingly hysterical rant, voice just as soft and soothing as it had been when she told him stories to help him sleep. "Calm down. You're in withdrawal, aren't you?" She asked sadly, and he gave her a tense nod, pacing on his side of the room to burn off his body's itching need for narcotics. Her reminder of the war he was waging helped him calm down a bit. Withdrawal was unlike anything he'd ever experienced- it took away his filter, his logic, and his order, until he was an emotional, high-strung mess. It took effort to keep himself together, even now. "I didn't know this before what happened to me, but apparently, a ghost can reach into another and grab their soul, which paralyzes them. You can still think and hear and feel and all of that, but you are frozen. That technique was used long ago to bring ghosts into submission, but it is no longer used because it can damage the soul, even when a ghost is innocent."

"That's the same process as shredding, isn't it? They take your soul in their hands and then they-," Sherlock made a violent motion with his one hand, unable to finish the sentence. Marie grimaced.

"Isolation is horrible, but if he hadn't paralyzed me I would have been fine." She tried to say it firmly, but she shivered half way through, destroying any ideas in Sherlock's mind that she was strong at that moment.

"And your soul is damaged now." Sherlock nearly accused, now working the stress ball with his long, elegant fingers. Marie shivered. "How bad is the damage?" Sherlock threw out there, wanting to hug and kill and shoot up all at the same time.

"It was compressed and cracked slightly by the squeeze. I- I can try melding it back into shape, but that will take time. And it will hurt. But if I do get it back to roughly its normal size, sunning will finish off the healing process. I'll be a bit more…spacey, but I'll be the same old Marie, I promise." Marie hastened to comfort, seeing absolute terror in Sherlock's eyes when she told him that she was going to reach inside her own body to meld her soul back into shape. It sounded horrible.

"This is my fault. _MY FAULT!" _Sherlock yelled, throwing his stress ball at the wall. It bounced back and rolled past Marie to rest against the opposite wall. "If I hadn't shut you out or kept secrets or even started _using _none of this would have happened. What is wrong with me? I hurt you and now-!"

"Sherlock!" Marie very nearly yelled it, but it cut him off of his rant that was full of self-hatred. Only then did he realize that he was gripping his hair in fistfuls, shuddering. "It's not your fault. I know that this relationship is borderline against the law for me, and yet I have and will always stay with you. That is my choice, not yours. Don't do this to yourself, especially when you aren't thinking clearly." Marie told him sharply. "Now, go and take a shower, clean yourself up, alright? For me." Marie requested, and Sherlock took a few deep breaths before giving a jerky nod, heading into the bathroom and shutting the door with shaking hands. As soon as he was gone, Marie started her search. She checked every single floorboard, ever cubby, the bottom of every drawer in the room, as well as in all of the books. She found decent stashes of both cocaine and heroin, along with plenty of syringes. She took that, along with the dealer's contact information, and took them to Death Valley and cast them into an alkaline pool, satisfied that Sherlock wouldn't realize their disappearance for a long time. The sun there helped her recuperate from being in Sherlock's presence, so she went back.

Knowing that what she was about to do was an invasion of privacy and yet if was for Sherlock's own good, Marie went completely invisible and snuck into the bathroom. Sherlock's shower curtain was a thick white material, thank goodness, so she could only see a general outline as he showered, still shaking, even under the hot spray. Marie checked every tile in the bathroom, behind the mirror, in the toilet, every place she could think of, and found a bit more. She took it without hesitation back to Death Valley and disposed of it. When she returned, invisible, she nearly ran right into Sherlock, who was darting around his room in nothing but a towel, gathering a set of pajamas to wear. He went back into the bathroom to change, leaving Marie standing there in surprise. It was obvious that Sherlock had grown up quite a bit in ten years, but seeing him almost completely naked was just another reminder that he was aging and she was not.

When he emerged, fully dressed and looking much better, he found Marie floating by the window, nearly disappearing in the faint light. "I forgot to mention this, but Happy Birthday, Sherlock." Marie said, and Sherlock actually _laughed _a true laugh as he sank down at his desk.

"Thank you, Marie." He said seriously, and she turned to offer him a weak smile. "You should go." He told her, and when she drew herself up, affronted, he added, "You're still weak and my presence must be agonizing. I'm not going anywhere, I promise. Rest." He ordered, and Marie deflated, rippling a bit when the sun went behind a cloud, casting her into shadow.

"Only if you do the same, Sherlock." She ordered right back, and only when he had promised to be safe did she disappear.

Marie returned to the nearest desert that still had sunlight and decided that she might as well try to fix her soul now. Thomas had told her about the process she'd have to go through, and she knew that it was awful. She knew that it would hurt. She even knew that there was a chance that she would have unnatural connections to the cosmos, to the universe. Thomas had told her old stories of ghosts who had been subdued and then could turn around and out-power ghosts that were centuries older than them simply because they had the forces of the cosmos trapped inside of them. It was odd- and another reason why paralyzing had been forbidden. Despite that possible perk, there was still a dangerous chance that Marie could hurt her soul even more. Souls were not made to be played around with or even touched- and for Marie to fix hers she would need to mold it like clay. The dangers were intense- but if she didn't mold her soul into somewhat of a normal shape, it would be cracked and broken forever. Eventually, that damage would affect her day to day activities until she would slowly go insane.

Settling down on a sand dune, Marie closed her eyes and drank in all the heat she could. Taking a deep breath, she slowly let her hands pass into her chest, a wince crossing her face as they nicked the twisted hunk of metal that was the three bullets in her heart. Inhaling quickly, Marie palmed her soul and _shuddered. _She could feel the pressures of the universe, every second of every life that had ever existed _ever, _and yet her life sang out the most. Gritting her teeth, starting to shake, Marie did what she had to. She took her soul into her hands like a ball of dough and rolled it to smooth the soul into a uniform size and shape, letting out a scream of pain that echoed around for miles. An odd sucking and pulling feeling, along with pain, radiated through her chest- it was as if her soul was trying to suck the entire universe inside it. It took a lot of effort to beat off all of creation to heal her soul, and even then, Marie could only handle making her soul malleable for a few seconds before her body forcefully ejected her hands back out into open space. The amount of energy she'd given off in just mere seconds was enough to make her woozy- Thomas had been completely right. It hurt. _A lot. _

Trembling with effort, Marie took a moment to take stock. She had molded her soul back into a ball shape, but there were still cracks, fine ones, but the cracks were there regardless. Gathering her courage, Marie managed to roll her soul for a few more seconds, erasing the cracks to a point where they would be safe (no soul would leak out of the cracks) before she slipped back into oblivion, the world going dark.

It took her two days to realize that she was floating in and out of spectrums, instinctively following the sun without her brain's permission. It was survival instinct and for a while, Marie just rode the path of heat and warmth until she could control herself again. When she did, she found a strange feeling in her chest. It was a humming, thrumming feeling, warm almost, in her soul. She had absolutely no idea what it was, and that was slightly terrifying. Needing advice, she sought out Thomas through a telepathic connection.

_Marie? How are you? Is everything alright? _Thomas fired off right away.

_I'm doing fine, thank you. If it wasn't for you I wouldn't even have the question I have to ask you. _Marie settled for, and Thomas paused, gaging the connection to see if he could figure out her question on his own. Thomas wasn't the oldest ghost around, that was for sure, but he had _centuries_ on Marie. It didn't take him long to notice that something was different- she had something he hadn't felt in a long time.

_Marie…you've got life power. A lot of it. How…? _He managed, flabbergasted.

_I molded my soul back into shape. It was more cracked than we thought, and something odd happened. Now I've got this __**feeling **__in my chest. Is that life power? What does it do? _Marie questioned, and Thomas let out a slightly awed, slightly tired sigh.

_Life power is the power you've been using to communicate telepathically with me like this. You've also been using it to travel in spectrums, to pick things up, things like that. Over time, older ghosts store sunlight energy into themselves subconsciously. Over centuries, that builds up into vast wells of power- enough to light things on fire and even to kill people. I've met very few people who have more than you do- you even have more than __**me. **__Use it carefully, alright? It will take a while to master its power. _Thomas managed to explain it all in just a few sentences, and Marie mulled it over. This 'life power' sounded incredible, it made her _feel _incredible. According to Thomas, he'd told her that she would be weak for months after her ordeal in isolation and the slight crushing of her soul. However, she didn't feel an ounce of that aching then. She still felt tired and weak from molding her soul around, but she could already feel that pain passing. It was incredible.

_How long does it last for? _She asked, calculating. She could use this power to break Sherlock's addictions once and for all, she realized. Sherlock had no idea how powerful she had been before that mess, and now that she was even stronger _she _didn't even know how powerful she was. Despite that fear of the unknown, it didn't matter to Marie. Power was power, and it would help Sherlock beat his addictions. What other use did she have for it?

_It depends on how you use it. If you heal wounds or try to reincarnate bodies, it will deplete instantly. Activities such as telepathic communications and traveling in spectrums won't take any effort anymore- not ever. You have so much and you will continue to add so much to it that those strains will never touch you again- unless you blow that much power all at once, which will definitely alert the Ghost Council. Nothing will happen to you, but they'll watch you like a hawk for the rest of your life and that will most definitely keep you from seeing your human friend again. _Thomas warned her, and Marie was grateful for the warning. Thomas had years of experience over her and she treasured his advice more than anything else (besides Sherlock).

_Thank you. I don't think I'll use it at all- I really can't think of a reason to. Not yet. _She lied, and Thomas chuckled, the action making the connection shake a bit in his amusement.

_Sure you can't. If you use it to help Sherlock, bear in mind that simply erasing the problem won't get rid of his temptation forever. He needs to conquer his demons on his own. _Thomas told her, and Marie felt herself 'blushing' in embarrassment. That was the last time she would ever try to lie to him again.

_Thank you. For everything. _She said empathetically, and Thomas gave the connection a playful nudge.

_Go. Fix your human. I'll contact you soon. _He promised, and with another heartfelt thank you, Marie broke the connection. She sunned in her current desert (the Sahara) for a few more hours before returning to Sherlock.

* * *

**A/N: Gah. Please tell me what you think!**


	7. Chapter 7

When Marie returned to Sherlock, she instantly knew that he was still going through withdrawal. He was sitting at his desk, working, but his foot was and leg was bobbing up and down, jiggling constantly. His hand was anxiously working at that stress ball and again, like last time, he picked up on her presence instantly thanks to his hypersensitivity. "Marie, good, I was beginning to worry," Sherlock noted, rising instantly at Marie's return. "You look…well," He summed up, narrowing his eyes at her.

"And you still look like you're struggling," Marie said mournfully, offering him a caring yet worried smile. "Tell me, how are you doing?" She asked, and Sherlock stared at her for a moment, calculating. He hadn't blown up at her instantly, cuing Marie to know that he hadn't found out about his missing drugs yet, but he wasn't launching into the explanations she wanted. She made a mental note to search his rooms again as he stared at her.

"You first," he bargained, and Marie laughed weakly, sitting on Sherlock's bed. His eyebrows rose as he looked at her, really _looked. _She wasn't trembling or flickering anymore. Her being was glowing in its usual, healthy strong light, if not more so. Marie seemed at ease, which was odd. They'd only been apart for a few days, and Sherlock knew that she shouldn't have healed that quickly. "Did you mold your soul back into shape?" He asked suspiciously, and Marie let out a sigh, sitting cross-legged and sweeping all of her long, auburn hair to one side of her neck.

"Yes, I did." She confirmed, looking at the floor instead of Sherlock. "I talked to Thomas about the procedure and the risks and benefits involved with soul-manipulation beforehand, so I thought I knew what I was getting into. I'm fine," She assured hastily, seeing how Sherlock's whole body gave a distressed twitch. "It's just a feeling that you have to actually experience to understand. Molding my soul _really _hurt, but at the same time I accidentally got a bit of life power stuck to me."

"What is that?" Sherlock demanded automatically, pacing to burn off his body's energy as he entertained his mind.

"Life power is something only ghosts that are centuries old have." Marie started, and then proceeded to explain to Sherlock how a ghost acquired it and why she, in the process of punching her soul back into shape, managed to scoop up a lot of it from the universe itself. It was a surprise added perk, which had helped her recover much, much faster than she should have. Sherlock looked wildly fascinated by the end of her description, the effect marred by his body, which was still sick from drugs.

"What powers has this unlocked for you?" He asked next, eyes burning with curiosity and excitement. It was good for Marie to see that again- she hadn't seen Sherlock looking that keen on something since he was about twelve years old.

"I don't know," Marie said with a shrug. "I've heard stories about what life power and older ghosts can do, but until I figure out how to do it I'm not going to mess with it around you. I've got to control it first." Marie said firmly, and Sherlock groaned loudly at her responsibility, rolling his eyes and neck at the same time. "Don't give me that. What about you? How are you holding up?" Marie switched tactics, sending Sherlock a hard stare to show him that she meant business. Withdrawal was no laughing matter, and she wasn't going to let him blow her off. Sherlock's excitement died and he slowly sat back down into his desk chair, scowling.

"I am out of control; I burn with need and resisting, but it feels like resisting only makes things worse." Sherlock admitted, rubbing his unruly curls angrily with one hand. Marie let out a slow breath- she could sympathize _completely. _"It's been very difficult, but I know that using is not an option anymore." Sherlock said firmly. His conviction made Marie relax a bit; Sherlock sounded completely serious. Besides, she knew Sherlock- once he set his mind on something there was no going back.

"I know how you feel," Marie told him, and Sherlock's eyes lit up again. He'd (a bit guiltily) completely forgot that Marie knew a lot about resisting temptation. He blamed the drugs for his lapse in thought. "It's hard to compare strategies, especially because I'm fighting the urge to murder people and you're fighting the urge to use, but I can tell you what I do when I'm having trouble." She said, and Sherlock's gaze didn't falter; he didn't even blink. She had his complete and undivided attention. "I just look at you. I look at the people around me and remember that I used to be just like them. Even though I don't know those people, I _know _them. One of them might have a young baby at home, one might be on his way to a party, a young girl has her whole life ahead of her. Those people have life and I'm not the one who should and could ever take that away. When I struggle with you, I see your potential, something that if I ever squashed or hurt or destroyed I would shred myself." Marie told him, and Sherlock's leg stopped fidgeting.

"Sentiment," He said quietly, and Marie offered him a sad smile. "To follow that logic pattern, I shouldn't and _can't _use because…because I have life that has potential. It will hurt you and everyone I love if I continue." Sherlock summed up quietly, and Marie gave him a nod. "But, Marie, the drugs take _away _that filter. I don't care about myself or my family or my morals anymore. I turn into nothing but a beautifully functioning brain machine. My potential explodes when I use…and I can't see past that. You know that I believe that my body is nothing but transport- when I eliminate it my true potential shines." Sherlock practically raved, getting up to pace.

"You want to be a machine?" Marie asked for clarification, unable to hide the horror from her voice. "Sherlock, you listen to me," She said firmly, resisting the urge to get off the bed and grab him by the chin. "You are _human_, Sherlock, and that means that you come with feelings and a body whether you like it or not- it's natural for you to be more than just a brain. If you had no morals or feelings, where would you be now? You wouldn't have come back to see me the day we met, you wouldn't be close with your family, you would have absolutely _no one." _Marie told him sharply, rising off the bed now. "What good is genius if no one can see it? Being a machine is the worst fate you could ever give someone."

Sherlock stared back, brow furrowing. "Even worse than being a ghost?" He asked, and Marie sent him a fierce glare, the room starting to darken, the windowpanes starting to rattle. How _dare _he ask her a question like that? The rational part of Marie told her that Sherlock was going through withdrawal and didn't have his normal logic, but the angry part of her didn't care. Sherlock's words had hurt, hurt when all she'd even done for him was to help him. Suddenly, the cut on his cheek, caused by her making his syringe explode, seemed perfect. "_Marie," _He prompted, his voice a warning, and Marie snapped to. She'd been close to calling an Inspector again, Sherlock had made her that angry. "I'm sorry," he added, lowering his gaze in an unusual display of shame. The room warmed again and grew brighter as Marie felt a rush of affection and worry for Sherlock all at once.

"Come here," She requested, tone gentle, and Sherlock, ever trusting, came over, his fingers drumming a light pattern on his leg as he continued his fight against his want for the drugs. Standing right in front of him, Marie took stock. For so long she remembered Sherlock being a little boy, but now he was a man. He was taller than her, by at least four inches, and she could tell that he'd only get taller. Despite how he mistreated his body with drugs, he kept in good shape. Being a ghost, Marie could see what others could not, and the nature of the track marks in Sherlock's arms called to her, called to her as something that hurt. Even though he wore long sleeves, she could sense their presence. Somehow knowing that Sherlock would want those reminders on his body, Marie chose not to heal those. What she did want to heal, however, was the cut on his cheekbone. Marie had never in a million years thought that she would or could physically hurt Sherlock, and it shamed her to see that she had.

"Marie," Sherlock started, but she raised a finger to stop him, examining the cut more closely. The siren call of life under Sherlock's skin was there, but the power and light in her kept her satiated.

"Hold very still," She told him, and Sherlock instantly turned into a marble statue, not moving an inch besides the gentle pulse in his neck. It was a sign that although he felt the need to twitch and move as he went through withdrawal, it didn't control him. Trusting him to hold his ground and to _stay still_, Marie called upon that life power thrumming by her soul. She felt it blossom into her arm, race to her fingertips. _I want to heal him. I want to fix him. _Marie urged herself just as much as the power, and a vaporous silver cloud started to slowly build upon her thumb.

Very delicately, Marie reached up higher, stretching a bit to reach Sherlock's face, and got her thumb close to the cut. Biting her lip in concentration, Marie let the cloud extend until it touched the cut. Sherlock offered no reaction as she made a quick, sweeping motion with her thumb, moving the cloud over the cut and away. She let the life power retreat back to her soul, noting that there was slightly less there. Then, she watched in awe as the cut on Sherlock's face knitted back together and smoothed into his usual impeccable skin. When it stayed that way, Marie clapped her hands together in delight, a grin spreading across her face. "What did you do?" Sherlock asked curiously, lifting his hand to touch his cheekbone only when Marie had stepped back. It surprised Marie that he didn't feel anything, but it surprised Sherlock more to find that the cut on his face was gone. His long fingers ran over the spot over and over as he tried to find some sort of remnant of the silver cloud or the cut, but found neither.

"I owed you an apology for losing my temper." Marie told him, and they both grinned at each other like idiots. Marie stayed for a long time, answering Sherlock's questions about what she had heard she was capable of now that she had that life power, and even though she'd compiled an impressive list (Sherlock was completely fascinated by the fact that she could raise the dead and start things on fire, of course), Marie refused to test out any of them in front of him. Healing was a positive action, something that she found very easy to control. During that time, Sherlock seemed as twitchy as he had before, but not more so. It seemed like he was coping, which encouraged Marie enough to trust him enough to leave.

It was a mistake.

She hadn't been gone for more than half an hour, determined to wait until Sherlock was sleeping before going back to search his room again, when she heard Sherlock, clear as day, as if he was standing next to her. Over the years, Marie had become very attuned to Sherlock, to a point where she could hear him if he called her, which came in great handy when he was younger and always in trouble. Now, however, he sounded not panicked, but enraged. _"MARIE!" _His disembodied voice practically screamed at her, and right then and there Marie knew that he had gone looking for his drugs and had been unable to find any. Keeping her face stern and smooth even though her heart was breaking, Marie used the spectrums to appear, unannounced, in Sherlock's room.

It was ripped apart. Sherlock, in his need for the drugs and then panic when he couldn't find any, had thrown things anywhere and everywhere in an effort to find just one stash. It appeared as though he'd found a syringe, one that she'd missed, but there were no drugs in sight. Knowing better than to stay solid, Marie let herself float and be vaporous as Sherlock rounded on her. "Marie, give it back," he demanded, fixing her with an eagle-eyed stare that held nothing but loathing and threats of what was to come if she didn't produce the heroin/cocaine mix he loved so much.

"No, Sherlock." Marie said firmly, keeping her iron façade on, and Sherlock threw a book at her. It passed through harmlessly as he stalked across the room.

"Give it back. NOW!" He raged, angrier than before when the book hadn't hurt Marie at all- she hadn't even flinched. Internally, it hurt her, but she didn't outwardly show that. It was emotional pain anyway, and in her battle with Sherlock and his addictions, any sentiment would destroy her defenses.

"Sherlock, as long as I am on this planet I will make sure that you never touch a syringe again," she promised, and Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

"But what if you _weren't _here? What if you slipped, let out some energy, what then? What happens if you're perfect 'self-control' fell?" Sherlock asked in a very quiet and dangerous voice, bearing down over Marie. On the inside, Marie was reeling. The drugs, the need for more, had transformed Sherlock into a terrifying and heartless man- he was suggesting that he could make sure that Marie was shredded just so that he could resume his selfish indulgences- _he was_ _that far gone. _That alone told Marie that she needed to see him through to sobriety, no matter what the cost.

"Go ahead," Marie said coolly, extending her vaporous arm out to Sherlock, until they were almost touching. He wouldn't be able to touch her, he'd just pass through, but it showed her conviction. "Throw away your friend, Sherlock. Do it if the drugs mean so much more to you. Tempt me to destroy yourself." She threw the last words at him and he stared at her, expression wavering as he took in her arm. Long ago, when he was just a little boy, he'd tried to take a pulse there and had ended up with a friendship that could last until eternity if he were to become a ghost. The idea of throwing that away tore at Sherlock's resolve until he took a step back, shaking his head, trying to get back his logic. Withdrawal had him just as scattered as the drugs, and without the high to ease his way.

"I'll buy some more, then. You can't stop me." He sneered, turning and picking up his coat. In an instant, the locks in all the doors and windows clicked menacingly closed, trapping him. "I'll yell for help," Sherlock fired off after trying to unsuccessfully pick the lock with his trembling hands.

"Go ahead, try it," Marie said icily, completely bluffing. Thankfully, Sherlock, in his shaky state, just swore under his breath and threw his coat to the floor.

"Fine then. Keep me prisoner- a ghost will find out eventually what you're doing. You'll be shredded and then I'll finally be free to do as I please," Sherlock snarled, and Marie smiled bitterly.

"I'd do it, Sherlock. I'd get shredded for you. I'd have my soul scattered across the universe _for all time_ if that's what it took to keep you sober." She enunciated, and she saw his eye twitch. Good. The emotional side of his withdrawal symptoms was trying hard to win. She only needed to play her final card to bring Sherlock back down from his rage. "Thankfully, I don't have to do that. Not yet." Marie continued. Sherlock was watching her, almost mesmerized, an awful feeling of dread in his gut. He didn't want to know how far Marie would go for him- he couldn't feel that guilt, not when he needed his fix.

"Oh? What could be worse than that? All you ever bitch about is being shredded," he fired off, his warped mind pleased with his comeback. The bitter smile remained, and the dread in his gut increased.

"I'd go to Mycroft, Sherlock," she said quietly. "I'd go to him, reveal that no, I haven't moved on and that yes, I am forced to watch a life I could have had slip away from me for the next sixty years and then be stuck with the memories of not being able to have something I've dearly wanted forever. I'd take away Mycroft's security, the thing that helped him move on. I'll throw everything I've ever wanted on the line. For you. If you make me." Her voice was painfully calm as she narrated out everything she'd ever feared and wanted all at once. Sherlock stared back at her, the fire in his veins dying instantly.

"Marie," Sherlock uttered quietly, staring at her in shock, his eyes slightly hazy. His mind was whirling, black spots rising in his vision as he came down off of his rage fueled high. Then, without further ado, he proceeded to faint quite dramatically, his fall thankfully caught a bit by the tornado of clothing that was strewn about his room.

"Sherlock? _Sherlock!" _Marie called him, wishing with all her heart that she could touch him. She knelt by his head, leaned over him so that her ear was hovering by his throat and simply listened. She could hear the life in him pounding a bit quicker than usual, but it was steady and sure. He was breathing fine. Mystified, the adrenaline and worry slowly leaving her, Marie sat back and stared at Sherlock. "You are a complete and utter arse, you know that?" She told him weakly, but Sherlock didn't move. Trust Sherlock of all people to faint when the conversation got too deep to handle. Considering this was their first, true fight, Marie was still half wounded by Sherlock's arrogance and cruelty and half worried for her friend at the same time. Maybe he'd sleep off more of his symptoms if she let him rest? She wondered, gazing at him. She usually, contrary to popular culture, hardly ever watched Sherlock while he was sleeping. At that point in time, she'd usually been with him so long that she needed to scout out the nearest desert to power back up, to satiate her need no matter how insignificantly. While Sherlock slept, she sunbathed. Seeing Sherlock sprawled out, completely relaxed, was new for her.

His newly healed cheekbone stuck out of his face, high and proud, just like its twin. His hair was unruly to the point of being matted- he'd clearly run his hands through it in first frustration and then panic. His skin was as pale as ever, a slight sheen to it due to sweat. He'd quite literally torn his room to pieces while his body begged him for another hit- of course he'd been sweating. He clearly didn't know how to do laundry- all his expensive silk shirts were obscenely tight, as if they'd shrunk in the wash. Looking at him, seeing his face, reminded her of Mycroft. The two brothers, although they acted differently, looked much more alike than she could sometimes handle. Considering their previous conversation, Mycroft was fresh on Marie's mind. She'd stuck true to her self-control and hadn't visited Mycroft since that night. She'd certainly seen him in the presence of Sherlock, but whenever she saw him with her detective she usually left straight away, unable to stay.

Now, all she wanted was to see Mycroft again.

Using some of the life power, she managed to _levitate _Sherlock into bed. She knew that he was on the thinner side, and yet controlling the force to lift his body weight was a challenge. Once he was in bed she used more life power to get his shoes off and to whisk the covers over him. Before she went to seek out Mycroft, she used the free time to search Sherlock's room again- in all the disarray he wouldn't be able to tell what had been moved and what hadn't. She found a few more empty syringes, which she crushed, before casting one more look at Sherlock before leaving.

Dancing through several spectrums, Marie arrived in London, floating at the level of the fourth floor of an office building, invisible, as she watched a very tired looking Mycroft Holmes slog through paperwork. He had a higher position in the British government than he did last year; he was ambitiously climbing through the ranks. Despite that, he still wanted more, and worked long, painful hours to get there. If Sherlock's addiction was heroin, Mycroft's was work. Even though he looked tired and was cast in a slightly unflattering light by his strong desk lamp, to Marie, he'd never looked more handsome and a sharp pain stabbed her chest- a pain of wanting, a pain of loss. She missed Mycroft every day of her afterlife, and seeing him only made it worse.

Unable to stop herself, she slid through the wall and into his office. It was spacious, with a rich oak desk and all plush carpeting on the floors. Mycroft's pen scratched busily over his papers even though he clearly looked uncomfortable. Marie longed to rub his shoulders, to ease the pen from his fingers. She wanted to undo his tie while he toed off his shoes. Only when he was out of his suit and into pajamas would they lay down together, like they'd dreamed of. She'd lay her head on his chest and listen to his heartbeat slow as he fell asleep. In the morning, she'd convince him to have a bit of a lie-in. Mycroft would complain a bit, but he'd want to from the beginning.

Snapping herself out of it, Marie clenched her hands tightly together. _You cannot touch him. _Her steel side insisted firmly. Her self-control, having been practiced for about ten years, was strong, and deep in her heart, even though she longed to touch Mycroft, to kiss him, she knew that it was wrong. Instead, she stood in front of him, let her eyes bore into him. She had a message to deliver, one that had nothing to do with her. Her own wants and dreams could wait- they had to wait. Until then, she had priorities, and Sherlock came first. Always.

_Check on Sherlock. _

She sent to him, the thought strong and slightly worried.

_Sherlock needs you tonight. Check on him, Mycroft._

She sent again, and Mycroft's pen slowed and then stopped. He looked up slowly, scanning his office with keen yet tired eyes, his expression wary and yet…slightly hopeful?

_Sherlock needs your help._

Marie repeated mentally, surprised that she could telepathically contact a human. Even if he thought that the ideas were coming from his own mind, the talent was useful. Besides, she could tell from Mycroft's expression that he thought that something else was going on, but he couldn't confirm or place the idea properly in his mind. He slowly reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved his phone.

"Jack, bring my car around, please." He told it, and after receiving confirmation, Mycroft hung up. He stood, straightened his jacket, and found his coat. He pulled it on and adjusted a scarlet colored scarf to cover his throat. He pulled on a pair of brown leather gloves and then paused before leaving. He slipped his phone into his pocket and removed a key instead. He unlocked a drawer on his desk and removed a book. _Great Expectations _was very worn and well loved, a tattered shell of the book Marie had seen ten years ago. As tears welled up in Marie's eyes, Mycroft flipped the book open and stared down at an equally aged bookmark. On the bottom, still visible, was Marie's name. Mycroft gently ran a finger along it before shutting the book and tucking it into his coat pocket with all the grace of a gentleman. His face was still as calm and smooth as ever, but there was a sadness, a weariness in his footsteps as he turned and walked out the door, shutting the lights out after him.

For all Marie knew, he could have been going home, and yet something told her that he wasn't. Satisfied that she'd completed her mission, even though her dead, shot heart was breaking, Marie used the spectrums to leave Mycroft's office.

She hardly ever went back to Rose Hill Cemetery, but on that night, she decided that there was nowhere else she'd rather be.

* * *

**A/N: And so the story continues! Sherlock is getting himself into trouble (as usual), and Marie is the faithful friend, as always. You can bet that'll change though. Soon. :)**


	8. Chapter 8

When Sherlock woke up, he was in his bed, shivering from the last of his withdrawal symptoms. Mycroft was sitting next to him, reading through his worn copy of _Great Expectations. _The room was still a complete and utter mess, and, worse of all, Marie was nowhere to be seen. Memories of everything that he had said to her, everything that he'd done to her came flying back until his guilt felt worse than his symptoms. Gnawing deeper at him was his worry and confusion as to how Mycroft had gotten there. Marie had threatened him with that kind of an intervention; did she really go through with it? Did she reveal herself to Mycroft? The presence of the novel as well as Mycroft himself seemed to suggest that Marie had disillusioned Mycroft, and yet his brother didn't look upset at all. While it was true that Mycroft was good at hiding his emotions (especially the pure anger he must have been feeling at Sherlock), Sherlock knew that if Mycroft knew all of the truth he would not be so calm. "Hello, Sherlock," Mycroft said coolly, shutting his book and fixing Sherlock with an incredible glare.

"Mycroft," Sherlock greeted him, voice hoarse as he sat up, fluffing his already snarled hair a bit more. "Did your superiority complex need a refresher? Is there something you wanted?" He snarked at him, trying to muster up a few protections, even though he knew it was useless.

"You could tell me why all the doors and windows were locked, why your room is destroyed, and why you were passed out cold in your bed, but neither of those answers will come close to the real answer I want from you," Mycroft's voice was low, cold, and harsh. Sherlock swallowed. Was this it? Was this where he demanded to know how long Sherlock had been befriending his dead girlfriend? Was this where Mycroft demanded to know everything he knew? "What I want to know, Sherlock, is why there are trace elements of cocaine and heroin in your blood as well as all over your room?" Mycroft asked sharply, and Sherlock released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Mycroft didn't know. Marie was safe. That, above all, meant more to Sherlock than his reputation, his integrity with Mycroft, or even his life.

"You must be stupider than I thought, Mycroft. Asking questions to which you already know the answers won't get you anywhere in life," Sherlock smirked, and Mycroft's glare increased to epic proportions. He leaned forward to accentuate his point.

"What the hell were you thinking, Sherlock? _Drugs? _Are you suicidal as well as dense? I don't know what's worse, the fact that I had to make sure that you weren't going to choke on your own vomit in your sleep or that you've been _cooking your own_ concoctions here in your room to inject yourself with." Mycroft practically growled. Sherlock let out a sniff, sliding out of bed and catching himself on the headboard when the room practically spun. Mycroft rose with him, his hand forming an iron grip on Sherlock's elbow, for support as well as a threat.

"Piss off, Mycroft," Sherlock said with as much dignity as possible, and his brother's grip got even tighter, if possible.

"Sherlock, you have two options. I can take you back to Oxford and you can face Mummy and Father's wrath and never be allowed out of their sight again, or you can settle in London, go to rehab, and get clean. It is your choice."

"Just two, Mycroft? Who says you have any control in my life? I am an adult- I make my own decisions. You have no power here, so go back to pushing pens around and playing bureaucrat." Sherlock snapped.

"Sherlock, you have a serious problem. If it wasn't for some strange moment of intuition, I never would have come and you would have remained a worthless addict for the rest of your life. For once in your life, put your pride aside and accept help when you need it!" Mycroft exclaimed. For a moment, the two brothers stared at one another – Sherlock growing solemn and Mycroft keeping his expression perfectly smooth, minus his eyes. There was as much determination there as there was hurt, and it was that expression, not anything that Mycroft could or would ever say to him, that made Sherlock relent. It was for the best- he _did _need help. Marie had made that very clear and he owed it to her to get clean, along with much, much more.

"Do you ever wonder if there is something wrong with us, Mycroft? That constant buzz of mental prowess every single second of every single day- can that possibly be normal?" Sherlock asked very quietly, and Mycroft released his grip, recognizing Sherlock's defeat. His eyes had smoothed back over to nothing but slightly smug confidence- his admission of emotion was long gone.

"Normal? Wrong? No, of course not. We are neither of those things." He replied just as quietly, and Sherlock sat heavily onto the bed.

"I chose moving to London. Getting clean. Mummy and Father never need to know of this incident and I need a fresh start." Sherlock tried to make it sound like he wasn't admitting it (he was still proud, after all) as he sat up as straight as possible. He wasn't weak of body- just weak of mind.

"Indeed," Mycroft agreed, casting a look around the wrecked room before removing his mobile. He fired off a quick text. "Try to pack anything salvageable, but bear in mind that this rehab facility has very strict rules about what you can bring in, Sherlock. If you have any possessions that you wish for me to look after until you are clean, I will do so."

"My violin?" Sherlock inquired flatly, as if he wasn't filled with the terror of going through rehab. Initial withdrawal had been bad enough, and the idea of never touching a needle again scared him.

"I will look after it for you," Mycroft promised as Sherlock made his way through the mess to his wardrobe. Thankfully, in his mad state, he'd only shoved all the hung suits to one side instead of ripping them to shreds. At the bottom of the wardrobe was a small black case. Picking only his best suits, Sherlock packed, silently bubbling with a mixture of fear and fury that he couldn't bring his violin with him. It was more than just an instrument- it was a tool, a method that he used to cope with the boredom. The idea of being parted from it made him anxious.

Placing the case on the bed, Sherlock slid his violin out from underneath his bed and set it next to his case for Mycroft to take. Knowing that it was useless to bring his own toiletries, as the truly desperate brought drugs in toothpaste tubes and shampoo bottles, Sherlock selected three Chemistry textbooks to bring along and zipped up his case. As he was toeing on his shoes, a large man with an official expression plastered onto his face appeared, dressed in an impeccable suit- one of Mycroft's goons.

"Your car is ready, sir," he informed them.

"This is where I say goodbye, Sherlock," Mycroft said, taking the violin as Sherlock took his case. Sherlock looked at him for a moment, swallowing a few insults about how Mycroft was gaining weight and a few more comments about his 'sudden intuition', knowing better than to pry.

"Mycroft," Sherlock said goodbye crisply before turning and stalking past the goon. The faceless employee followed him out to the long, black car that was waiting and stowed the case in the boot as Sherlock got into the car, scowling at the second employee who tried to get the door for him. Mycroft watched the car pull away from Sherlock's window. When it was gone, he turned and looked at the room around him once more with a sigh. Sitting back in the same armchair by Sherlock's bed, Mycroft flipped his novel back open and stared at his bookmark.

He knew that he was being irrational and sentimental, but his sudden thought to check on Sherlock, although understandable to have come from a brother, hadn't come from Mycroft. He was sure of it. He'd been working on mountains of paperwork yesterday evening, the furthest thing away from Sherlock. The wording, the worry to the thought, it was all foreign to Mycroft's mind. The only person he had ever known to be that caring was long dead….the person who instantly came to mind was Marie. Mycroft ran a finger over the signature at the bottom of his bookmark as he had a million times before. He'd been exceedingly gentle each time as to not fade the ink; the one piece of proof that Marie had come to him that night was extremely precious to him because, even after all this time, he still loved Marie, of course he did. Marie had been the best part about his life, and still was. Whenever his colleagues or bosses asked him if he was human, if he felt at all, he would coolly inform them that no, he did not. Sentiment disrupted workflow. Only when he'd scored his next promotion or his cleverness had ensured that a plan was executed perfectly did he go home, pull out this bookmark, and remind himself that he was not the unfeeling robot that everyone perceived him to be. He'd loved Marie Williamson with all of his heart- he even had had plans to propose.

Mycroft could clearly remember his discussion with his father about it. Siger Holmes was an unforgiving man in many aspects, and Mycroft had been afraid that his father would not approve, would shut him down. There was no disobeying father, after all, and if Siger told Mycroft no, than Mycroft would not have proposed to Marie- that was that. To Mycroft's delight, his father had only asked him one question- if Mycroft loved Marie, and Mycroft had answered that yes, he did, with all his heart. Satisfied with that answer, Siger had given Mycroft his great grandmother's wedding ring to propose with, but had lectured Mycroft on waiting for the right time, citing that engagements were very fragile things and that he would need his mother's approval first. Mycroft had been beyond happy, even though his potential talk with his mother, Violet Holmes, scared him more than he thought his talk with his father would. He'd kept the ring carefully hidden away, with it in his head to ask his mother to talk with him at the end of the week.

Marie had been murdered two days later.

Mycroft's grief, his silent, added grief of the marriage he had never had only made things worse. He didn't tell his mother his intentions, and his father said nothing to anyone, per Mycroft's request. It was done, over, finished. He could never ask Marie, so why let everyone know? It would only bring added grief. To save everyone that burden, Mycroft took it all on. He gave the ring back to Siger, locked away his heart, and was content to let his love for Marie die with her. Fortunately, Marie, somehow, had come to Mycroft that night, and although he didn't tell her what his intentions had been, he was comfortable knowing that she was safe, happy, and in a better place. Maybe, just maybe, he'd follow one day.

Letting out a sigh and jerking himself back to the present, Mycroft closed his novel, tucking it back into his coat. He removed his mobile instead, standing up and walking out of Sherlock's destroyed room. He called for a discreet clean up service to salvage anything worth saving and to get rid of the rest before calling another car to come and get him. As he waited for it to arrive, he made a split second decision and called a florist.

Meanwhile, at her grave, Marie was levitating small rocks into towers on top of her head stone. The life power inside her had shown her how to levitate things, and now that she knew how, she didn't need life power to complete the action each time. All she had to do was sit in the sun and practice- it was like muscle memory, and it was wonderful. She was still worrying about Sherlock and she felt horrible about Mycroft, but she knew that Sherlock was on his way to rehab and that Mycroft was still happily ignorant. Sherlock would call when he needed her, and Mycroft would…well, Mycroft would go back to his life of climbing through the ranks of the British government. Despite her despair and her loneliness, Marie was incredibly proud of Mycroft. He was a hard worker, was fearsomely clever, and, most of all, knew how to balance the demands of the hardest jobs in all of England. He was made for politics and she was grateful that he'd found his niche, that he was successful. Being a Holmes, she had expected nothing less of him, but she was still so happy for him. He was living. He'd moved on.

Or had he?

No sooner had she thought that, did she sense him coming to visit her grave. She hastily destroyed the rock towers and sat on her headstone, even though common sense told her to go away, to let him visit in peace. She ignored the side of her that warned of temptation. She was only solid from the waist down and in a spectrum that Mycroft could never see. She'd handled worse situations, and she was confident that she could handle a visit.

As he came into view, walking tall and proud in an impeccably crisped suit, her breath caught in her throat. Even though he was almost thirty now (and she would be too, if she aged properly, which ghosts didn't), he was still handsome to her. His gingery hair was smoothed back, trimmed perfectly. He was clean shaven, as usual, and in his hands was a bouquet of white roses. **(A/N: White roses symbolize pure love, just fyi) **Mycroft came to a stop, staring at the inscription on her headstone, seeing right through her legs. As he gazed at the smooth stone, she gazed at him, filling with the type of bittersweet love she always felt for him. She almost always felt underdressed around him, as she'd died in a plain grey t-shirt, leggings, slip-on Keds, and an apron whereas he was always in a suit. Yet it was like nothing had changed between them, even though he was getting older and she was dead.

Marie pulled her feet up and out of the way as Mycroft placed the flowers on her grave neatly, stepping back to look at them placed there. Then, he reached into his coat and pulled out _Great Expectations _again. "Marie," he sighed to himself, opening the book and taking out the bookmark, looking at it once more. "I thought I would be enough, that we would be enough together, but that must be another dream for another life." He said very quietly to the headstone, and, unknowingly, to Marie. "I'll wait that long, if that's what it takes." He told the grave before tucking the book and bookmark back into his coat and leaving. Marie sat there for a long time, struggling against the urge to follow him, the urge to cry, and the urge to find Sherlock all at once. Following Mycroft would only be the start of an addiction, something she didn't want, crying would fix nothing, and Sherlock was still fragile and would call her when he was ready.

Resigned to wait, Marie knelt to smell the roses Mycroft had left her briefly before using a spectrum to travel to the nearest desert. Even though she was anxious, all she could do was wait. With that time, she was more than willing to practice levitation as well as to look for other added 'abilities' older ghosts had told her about, figuring that if she could master them, they would make a great present to surprise Sherlock with. And so, Marie kept busy. She practiced, learned how to start fires with her mind, which cost a lot of cactuses their lives on accident and paid a visit to Thomas to say hello and to wish him well. She went for two weeks, silently waiting, ignoring her urge to go to Mycroft, when she felt an inkling in the back of her mind.

_Sherlock._

He wasn't calling for her, even though his rehab was over at that point (she'd checked). This was different. This was the protective side of her warning her that Sherlock was in trouble. Not wasting any time, Marie took a moment to find him telepathically, and then she rode the spectrums as quickly as she could.

She arrived in mere moments to a dark alley on London's west side. Standing against a brick wall were two people. One was a scruffy man with an unkempt soul-patch on his chin. His clothes were all a size too big, and he was swimming in gold; gold ear piercings, gold neck chains, gold bracelets- all of it. He was smoking a cigarette. The other man was Sherlock.

He looked taller than ever in his dark coat, and he also looked thinner, paler. He seemed to be in a deep negotiation with the man as he fingered something in his pocket. "Look, do you have it or not?" Sherlock snapped at the other man, taking a roll of money out of the pocket. He continued to fidget with it as the man grinned at him, reaching into his pocket as well, producing a baggie full of white powder. At the sight of it, Marie's rage spiked.

"Fresh batch. Pure as snow. You'll like it," he told Sherlock in a throaty voice, hoarse from years of smoking.

"How much?" Sherlock asked, and Marie's temper broke. In an instant, the bag of methamphetamines burst into flames in the dealer's hands, making him yell out in shock. He dropped the bag and _ran _for the mouth of the alley.

"Sherlock Holmes, what the _hell_ are you doing?!" Marie demanded, appearing all at once. Sherlock hastily stuffed his money out of sight, avoiding her gaze. "All through rehab you didn't call once. You lie to me, threaten to get me _killed _so that you can continue getting your fix, and now this?" Marie listed off everything she was mad about, and the fire incinerating the drugs flared, burning hotter, forcing Sherlock to back away from it.

"Marie, I-," Sherlock looked up, guilt burning in his expression, but oncoming footsteps snapped his attention away from her. In an instant he started stamping out the fire on the drug bag and Marie changed spectrums to only be visible to Sherlock. The footsteps, it turned out, belonged to two coppers. The first was an older man with gently silvering hair at his temples. He had a lined face and looked tired. The second was a woman with ebony skin and a livid expression.

"Freeze!" She demanded, pulling her police issue at the same time as her companion. Sherlock stamped out the rest of the flames and stood back with a bored expression. "What are you doing here?" She asked as the first man, a DI, judging by his badge, knelt to examine the mostly burned bag of drugs.

"Investigating," Sherlock responded. To Marie, it was clearly a lie, but it was a lie that just might save Sherlock a 'possession' or an 'intent to buy' charge. "My name is Sherlock Holmes. I am a consulting detective here in London, and I was investigating _Le Grand Grenouille, _that drug dealer." He gestured with his head to the mouth of the alley where the dealer had left.

"Yeah, we caught him. Why didn't you, if you were investigating him? It looks to me like you're just a kid in need of a fix who burned the evidence that you bought some when you heard us coming." The woman said suspiciously, sending Sherlock a look.

"I didn't buy any. I set up the meeting with the intent to, but the dealer caught wind of my identity and ran, dropping his package. I'm investigating deaths procured by his new mix. I burned the drugs to see if they were pure." Sherlock made up the lie on the spot, and his arrogant and smooth tone sold it.

"So you'll have money in your pocket, then," the woman challenged. Sherlock sent her a withering look and slowly reached in to his coat pocket and retrieved the roll of money and then a lighter. She glared at them before turning her attention to the DI who was still examining the bag of drugs. "What do you think, Lestrade?" She asked, her tone suggesting that she obviously didn't believe a word of what Sherlock said. The DI stood up and looked Sherlock dead in the eye. Sherlock could tell that he was new to his position and was trying to make a living for himself. His marriage was starting to fail, he had ingested at least five cups of coffee that day, and that 'Lestrade', although his intelligence seemed rather fair at best, was an honest man. He would follow the rules, follow anyone, really, if that meant that he was being honest. He stared at Sherlock, making a careful first assessment. It was that care that made Sherlock panic. Lestrade wouldn't look for factual evidence- he'd look for the expression in Sherlock's eyes, the slight shaking in his fingers, the bags under his eyes. He'd put the pieces together.

"Don't bother asking him, he's not too bright. He's in desperate need of his sixth cup of coffee to fuel his less than average brain and he's been working extra shifts to get away from his wife and his failing marriage, so many, in fact, that he hasn't been home to get clean clothes in about two days. Conclusion: He isn't in any condition to make any sort of assessment, not in that state." Sherlock rattled off in a bored tone of voice. The woman stared at him, her temper clearly ready to explode. Lestrade, on the other hand, looked at Sherlock in a mix of awe and confusion.

"Well, that was…" Lestrade laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. "That was pretty much the most amazing thing I've ever heard." He added, chuckling again. His partner turned to glare at him in shock.

"Lestrade, he just _insulted _you." She reminded him, lip curling in distaste as she turned to glare at Sherlock again.

"Donovan, he was right about everything- that's not an insult. That's the truth." He turned and extended his hand to Sherlock. "DI Greg Lestrade, at your service," he introduced himself, and Sherlock, for the first time in his life, was glad to shake someone's hand.

* * *

**A/N: And...things are moving along! Things will start moving much more quickly now through Sherlock's 'recent' past until I get up until A Study in Pink. Enjoy!**


	9. Chapter 9

Even though Sherlock had told a version of the truth, and even though Lestrade was willing to deal with Sherlock's _interesting _behavior, Donovan was not and, as per standard procedure, Sherlock needed to go to Scotland Yard to give a statement. If Sherlock wasn't Sherlock, and if he didn't have the amazing mental prowess that he did, he wouldn't have been able to give the Yard so much information about the drug dealer, _El Gran Grenouille. _Unfortunately, at that point, Donovan had run a background check on Sherlock (she was more than disgruntled with him after Sherlock had told everyone within earshot of her most recently failed lover) and had found out about his stint in a rehab facility, as well as some of his breaking and entering charges he'd acquired in his short career as a consulting detective at school. With that information, Donovan clearly reminded Lestrade of the standard procedure of holding Sherlock until he could be proven completely innocent in the investigation involving _El Gran Grenouille_.

That is how Sherlock (and Marie, although he didn't know it, since she'd disappeared when he got in a squad car) found himself in a holding cell. Marie was in a spectrum that made her invisible to everyone as she paced through the cell, into the hallway, and then back into Sherlock's cell. He was furious at the fact that they took a blood sample to check if he'd taken a hit from the infamous drug dealer, and hadn't yet noticed the slowly dropping temperature that was always present when Marie was. Pacing helped to disperse the temperature anyway. She checked the hallway up and down and when she confirmed that there were no cameras, microphones, or people, she came back to Sherlock to keep him company. It only took him half of a minute to note the change in temperature. He looked up, looked down, and then gripped his hair. "I'm sorry, Marie," he said softly, keeping his eyes fixed to the floor.

"What were you doing in that alley, Sherlock?" Marie asked right out the gate in a cool, flat voice. She remained invisible. He gripped his hair tighter, staring at the floor.

"I- I needed some," Sherlock admitted in a broken voice. With that confession, Marie skipped the shimmering and appeared in less than half a second, kneeling in front of him.

"Sherlock, you went to rehab! Didn't you get any help there at all?" Marie asked, and he let out a hoarse and quiet laugh, half in despair and half in amusement.

"I learned in rehab, but an addiction never goes away. You know that as well as I do." Sherlock told her, meeting her eyes for the first time. He looked so regretful, so upset, that Marie felt her throat clog.

"Then why didn't you _call _me?" She demanded, and Sherlock looked away. "Sherlock, I know that addiction makes you want to be alone and yet surrounded all at once. Know that if you ever call me and then want me to leave, I will. Know that if you had called me instead of going into that alley, I would have helped you through this. I always will. Friends protect friends, Sherlock." Marie told him in a fierce whisper, and he let out a shuddering breath, hiding his face again.

"My behavior towards you lately has been abhorrent, and for that I apologize." He told her sincerely after a moment, gripping his unruly locks again. The drugs- both in the high and coming down, made me question everything I've thought I've ever known. I questioned myself, my sanity, Mycroft, my parents, and, worst of all, _you. _For the longest time I wondered if you were real, despaired that you weren't. The shame that has come from questioning my best friend was more than enough to give you the space you deserve. You don't deserve me, Marie. You deserve better. You should go to Mycroft, tell him that you are still here, and stay with him. You deserve _better." _Sherlock rambled, letting out everything that he'd bottled up.

"Oh, _Sherlock." _Marie whispered, almost raising a hand to tilt up his chin, to smooth his hair. "You are such an idiot," She said fondly. "I've told you that it is my decision to stay with you, and I'm not leaving. Your behavior did make me angry, but I'm only angry that you ever started taking drugs, Sherlock. That's what sparked all of this. If you had been yourself you would have never done those things. Now that you've been into rehab and know that you see that you can talk to me and that you _can _be clean, I've got nothing to be angry about besides the fact that you questioned yourself. Of all people, Sherlock Holmes, you were right to question my existence, but not your own. I'm _supernatural_, Sherlock. Children are told since they can retain information that ghosts aren't real but you, you are real. You are very real- the most real person I've ever known. So if you question yourself again so help me I will hurt you." Marie told him firmly by the end, and Sherlock let out a weak chuckle.

"Will you make me spontaneously combust, like that bag of methamphetamines?" He questioned, a hint of a smirk on his lips. Marie opened her mouth and then closed it, starting to flush a bit. That was supposed to be a secret, a surprise for Sherlock. It had been, but she hadn't planned on using it accidentally in a fit of anger. "How long have you been able to do that?" He questioned, raising an eyebrow at her.

"I haven't been holding out on you, if that's what you're implying. I learned while you were in rehab…along with some other things." She hinted, flashing Sherlock a mischievous grin, glad that she'd freed him from guilt. Sherlock went to answer, but the door down the hall opened. Marie instantly disappeared, flashing into a hidden spectrum before standing and backing into the opposite corner of the cell, ready to pass through the bars if necessary.

"Blimey, it's colder down here," the name of the officer in charge of the cells commented as he and _Mycroft _came around the corner. "Heating must be broken, sorry about that, chap. You're bein' released by the way." He added to Sherlock, producing the keys and unlocking the cell. "Charges are all clear," he informed him brightly. Maybe it was Mycroft's glare at him or maybe it was Marie's presence that made Sherlock swallow his nasty comments about how the guard didn't have any reason to be cheerful because he had extremely high cholesterol and blood pressure and was a ticking time bomb. Instead, Sherlock buttoned up his coat and strode out. Marie decided to follow along side, easily listening as she passed through walls.

"I've been informed that your blood is clean and that you were 'investigating' this drug dealer instead of buying from him." Mycroft told Sherlock in a dangerous undertone as they walked along.

"Both are true, Mycroft. Now, piss off." Sherlock said as the made it out of the Yard. Mycroft grabbed his arm and held him fast, ignoring the insult.

"One slip up, Sherlock, just one, and I'll tell Father and Mummy." He warned, and Sherlock sent him an equally impressive glare in return.

"There will be no slip up. I am clean. I will remain that way. Good evening, Mycroft." Sherlock voice was clipped and like ice as he pulled out of Mycroft's grip and descended the steps down to street level, flagging down a cab. Marie was tempted to linger on the steps with Mycroft, but her time with Sherlock and speaking of his addictions was fresh in her head, a new warning to her to keep her addictions as far at bay as possible. It was for that reason, for Mycroft's protection, that she left. She followed the cab along, floating lazily above it, and watched the city go by. She practiced one of her more recent abilities, mind reading, on the cabbie. He was thinking about his wife and kids and a bit about how 'gothic' Sherlock looked, but his mind was mostly on the traffic. Satisfied, Marie listened to his thoughts gently buzzing in her ear as the cab ride took them to a small, slightly dirty flat complex. It was dark inside Sherlock's first flat, even when he had the lights on.

"So, consulting detective, hmm?" Marie brought up as Sherlock shed his coat and made a cup of tea. Sherlock chuckled as he watched his electric kettle heat up.

"You did give me the idea, all those years ago. While my time in university has been interesting…I need to move on. London is a wonderful city and a good place for crime." Sherlock savored the word 'crime' as the kettle reached a slow boil.

"I was miffed when you told Lestrade that you 'invented the job'. Plagiarism isn't the best way to start out a career of fighting crime, now is it?" Marie teased, and Sherlock chuckled again, throwing her a look as he poured the water into a cup and steeped the tea.

"I feel like this job was made for me and I was made for it, Marie. Any other job would be too unbearably dull. I feel as if I can make a living here," Sherlock's voice became more serious as he watched his water swirl to brown.

"Remember, Sherlock, you are just a few weeks over twenty. You don't have to make this living and career right away, you know. You can take things slowly." Marie reminded him, sitting on the counter opposite, and Sherlock scowled.

"I never do anything 'slowly'. How boring." He practically whined, and Marie grinned. Sherlock had been beaten around a bit, and he still had a hard road ahead of him, but the idea of him becoming a detective made her excited and proud for him all at once.

"Just…remember that no matter how hard Mycroft seems to be pushing you that you can take your time. As long as you stay out of serious trouble he won't care _what _you do, and neither will I. You have no one to please here but yourself."

"You're beginning to sound like a therapist," Sherlock said, wrinkling his nose.

"Maybe you need one," Marie fired back, vaporizing off the counter and into a spectrum he couldn't see when Sherlock sent her an impressive glare (one that he may or may not have practiced in a mirror). "If you're going to be a consulting detective, you might need some backup. Who better than a perfectly silent and invisible ghost? I could even get you in touch with the victim, if it's a murder," Marie thought out loud as she flopped onto Sherlock's couch, reappearing in his spectrum as he turned to go into the living room. She hadn't completely solidified around him in a while, and in the back of her mind the need started. She ignored it, however, to focus on the suddenly excited face of Sherlock. He quickly sat down in his armchair, nearly spilling his tea.

"You _could_, couldn't you? Unless it's against Ghost Law," he checked, and Marie rolled her eyes.

"Oh, so now you care about the rules? No, it's not against the law. Our partnership would be pushing things a bit, but since you are fighting crime, not aiding it, I'll be alright. Besides, the council already has records of me, records of my pure self-control and my actions that were only in your best interest. It would take a lot for them to confuse me of trying to take someone, least of all you." I assured him, and Sherlock sat back in his armchair, having already forgotten his cup of tea.

"You could contact the victim. You could contact _anyone _I'd want to consult. I'd never thought of that before." Sherlock said in a slightly dreamy voice, his eyes going hazy as he started to sink into his mind palace. Curious, yet unwilling to invade Sherlock's privacy completely, Marie listened briefly into his thoughts.

The construction of his mind was so incredibly precise that it was like using (or listening to) a computer. She could see him taking down mental notes about asking her all sort of things as he reviewed files on people who had perished, interested in conducting interviews with them. It was utterly fascinating. Withdrawing from his mind – as it was _his _mind and not hers and she had no right to go poking around it, she decided to once again remind Sherlock that just because she was a ghost, that didn't mean that she could do everything. "Sherlock, I could do that, but only if they were willing to tell me anything. New ghosts are…skittish." Marie warned him, remembering all too well her own initial fear of Sir Thomas Klinberg, who was now one of her few close friends.

"Irrelevant- your demeanor, your personality, the method of your death as well as your sex will be a soothing as well as motivating factor. You will work well with any recent victims." Sherlock said distractedly, and Marie stared at him a moment before starting to laugh. Sherlock was finally getting back to normal. Distracted by her laughing, Sherlock surfaced from his mind palace, scowling at the interruption.

"What is so amusing?" he asked, adopting a fake acidic tone. His voice was sharp but his eyes were kind.

"You are," Marie chuckled, vanishing from the couch to appear over by Sherlock's one, grimy window, gladly going back to a vaporous state. "You should get some sleep, Sherlock. It's very late and you've had a long night." She told him, and Sherlock huffed, unimpressed.

"Thank you, _Mummy," _He accentuated the word, and Marie stuck her tongue out at him, massaging her chest a bit. Usually, she shimmered through spectrums gradually. All of her brisk movements so far had the bullets in her heart shifting around a bit. It was an odd feeling, one she didn't like. He got up anyway, though, and downed his tea. "Are you alright?" He asked, gesturing to her chest with his tea mug.

"Of course I am. I just need to stop moving so bloody fast all over the place- it's moving them around." She cited grumpily, flattening her palm and pressing in a circular motion, trying to ease the tension.

"The bullets?" Sherlock asked, looking to confirm, and Marie shot him a look that said '_obvious' _as she pressed a bit harder yet, giving a brief flicker when it sent pain shooting through her being. "I forgot that they are still in there, forgive me," Sherlock tacked on, watching Marie with curiosity now. "Have you ever tried to remove them?" he pressed when Marie waved a dismissive hand. She stopped massaging her wound at his question.

"Yes. Just once. It was horrid- like removing a part of yourself. You could try to cut your own arm off with nothing but a stick in comparison, and then, even if you succeed, the bullets reappear. It's honestly not worth it," She told him, glaring down at the dark red splotch on her chest. Silence descended.

"You'll be my one and only cold case, Marie, now that I'm a detective. I'll solve them all now," Sherlock promised, his voice unusually unsteady with sentiment. Marie looked up to see him staring at her with an unreadable expression on his face. Was that longing? Was that guilt? Was that sadness? Was it all of them? Marie wasn't sure, so she simply gave Sherlock a sad smile.

"Thanks, Sherlock. Now, for goodness sake, _go to bed." _She ordered, pointing down the hallway, and Sherlock frowned at her.

"Yes, Mummy," he muttered again, teasing her for emphasis, before vanishing down the hallway she'd indicated. Marie went to a hidden spectrum as she listened to Sherlock getting ready to sleep. Only when the flat went completely silent did she scan it diligently for drugs. Finding none, not even a syringe, Marie left, satisfied.

Over the next few days, she popped in on Sherlock in the evenings to hear about his day. He was solving cases like mad, and had even ran into the DI again. After completely showing him up at his own crime scene, Sherlock had given Lestrade his number and had told him to call when he was, as always, out of his depth. Marie scolded him, yet laughed at the same time when Sherlock told her about making the Sergeant, Donovan, explode with anger at only their second meeting. As the days stretched into weeks, Sherlock worked through more cases, earning plenty of money, even though he was charging an incredibly low fee for his services, just enough to live by. He only called Marie once, in the dead of night, to sit with him as he battled his addictions. They'd sat together, silent, in the dark, simply relying on each other's support. Weeks passed to a year, and all Sherlock did was solve simple robberies, missing items, missing persons reports, things of that nature. At first, Marie joined him. However, when it became apparent how 'elementary' the cases were, it also became clear that Sherlock could solve them without other-worldly help. Marie still met him every night to talk about his day, but during the day she usually spent it sunning, or talking with Thomas or some other ghost she ran into along the way.

Then, one day, it all changed; Sherlock got his first murder.

DI Lestrade had finally convinced his team that Sherlock could help them and he had stumbled upon a very odd case- a girl on her balcony had been killed, her throat slashed, and there were no signs of a struggle and there was very little evidence. The arterial spray had been directed towards the street, so no blood got on the murderer. There was no knife at the scene, and no fingerprints.

Marie had been sunning in the Sahara when she heard Sherlock practically singing her name from back in London. Curious at his good mood, Marie had flashed through spectrums before shimmering into Sherlock's visibility in London. He was practically skipping around his flat, grinning ear to ear. "A case, Marie, a _murder!" _He greeted her, throwing a lock-picking kit into his coat pocket, just in case. He never left home without it.

"Sherlock," Marie said disapprovingly, but with a smile. It was good to see Sherlock distracted, to see him happy, even if it was about some poor soul losing their lives. "Do you have any details?" She asked when Sherlock made an odd sort of huff, which roughly translated to, 'I'm sorry but this is fascinating'.

"Anna Hubert, 24. Murdered on her apartment balcony. No witnesses, no murder weapon, and no fingerprints. What a delightful puzzle. Coming?" Sherlock rattled off, heading for the door, jerking his scarf around his neck.

"How was she killed?" Marie asked, swallowing her apprehension.

"Her throat was cut." Sherlock told her under his breath as they reached the street. "Taxi!" He called in a much louder voice, and one obligingly pulled over. He got in without another word, and Marie decided to simply follow along again on the roof. This time, she didn't listen to the cabbie's thoughts; she was too preoccupied with her own. A young woman, murdered, just like she had been. Could she handle this? Was she prepared to see her own fate echoed back to her? She wasn't sure. Half hoping that this poor girl had moved on (although the chances weren't likely), Marie followed Sherlock's cab and stayed invisible as he entered a fancier flat complex and went up to the fifth floor. Breaking away from him, Marie stayed in the bedroom instead of going out to see the body. She ignored officers scrambling and muttering everywhere (about Sherlock, of course) and even ignored one man who walked right through her. Instead, she swept the scene with her eyes, looking for signs that only ghosts could see or feel.

She was suddenly overburdened with the strong feeling of jealousy. It reeked of hatred, of a need for revenge. There was a pang of love there too, mixed with obsession. Closing her eyes, Marie followed the connections, followed the bits of soul residue scattered in a path towards the balcony. A woman, around the same age. Jealousy. Jack was supposed to be _her _girlfriend! Anna was just a little slut. Opening her eyes, Marie felt a grimace pulling at her lips. Whoever had killed Anna Hubert had done so in a jealous rage over a man named Jack. "It was obviously a personal attack, someone she knew. They didn't want to face their victim; the murderer is cowardly. Our murderer is probably a woman, who was taller than the victim, judging by the downward angle of the cut- they were _above _and cut _downwards. _Obvious, so- we are looking for a woman, taller than the victim, who had a personal connection with them. The question remains as to what type of a connection they had," Sherlock was lecturing Lestrade with the air of an impatient teacher as the DI furiously scribbled notes. Sally Donovan stood by, her face as dark as a thundercloud. The man who had walked through Marie was standing next to her, expression just as stormy. His badge said _Anderson; Forensics. _

Turning away from the body lying on the balcony, Marie stepped off into an unoccupied corner of the victim's bedroom, observed a few pictures on the nightstand of Anna and the man who had to be Jack. They looked blissfully happy in their photographs, and Marie's heart clenched. Another couple, another beautiful relationship, destroyed. Sadness sprung up in Marie until she thought she'd burst. _Focus. Sherlock needs you. _She told herself, glancing at the detective. Every once in a while, he would let his gaze sweep the room, looking for her, curious if she'd found anything. Pushing past her own sense of déjà vu, Marie took a deep breath to center herself. "Anna? Anna Hubert? Are you here?" Marie called in a clear voice, unable to remove the tinge of sadness to her voice. She waited in silence, hoping, until-

A sniffle. "Who are you? What do you want?" A tear-stained voice croaked from over by the doorway to the balcony. "Are you one of those ghost council people?" Anna's voice continued as Marie slowly turned and started to head over.

"No, I'm not. My name is Marie Williamson, and I was murdered too. I work with that man you see there, with the dark hair. He solves murders, and I help him by talking to the victims." Marie explained softly, crouching down in front of the doorway, flickering through some spectrums until she found Anna. She was leaning against the left side of the doorway, knees drawn to her chest as she stared at her body.

"You help _him?" _Anna asked, voice tinged with surprise as she pointed at Sherlock. "But- he's human!" She protested, letting out a bit of a hiccup as she identified someone who was human when she wasn't. Not anymore.

"I know that what I do pushes at the rules a bit, but Sherlock tried to solve my murder. He was in a graveyard and saw me at my grave, even though I wasn't in the right spectrum for him to see me. He's only sworn to help me ever since, and he wants to help you too," Marie told Anna, trying her hardest to look at only her face. There was a dark line ripped across Anna's throat. It still looked wet, just like the dark red splotch on Marie's chest. Anna, however, being so new, just openly stared at Marie's wound.

"You were murdered," Anna whispered, sorrow in every word of her voice as she looked at Marie's blood stained shirt, looking hard enough to start to discern the individual three holes ripped into the shirt, all in a cluster. "I'm so sorry," She told Marie, and Marie smiled sadly at her. "He couldn't solve it, then?" Anna asked, looking back to Sherlock, a bit of distrust in her eyes now, especially because Sherlock was examining her fingernails.

"He was ten years old- I didn't want him to. He was stubborn- and I was so knew I didn't know how to stop him. I ended up trying to help him to keep him out of trouble, but he couldn't figure it out. Sherlock's a genius," Marie explained, as Anna's eyebrows rose.

"Then maybe he can help," Anna wiped her tears off her face, tearing her eyes from her body and back to Marie. "What do you need to know?" Anna asked, taking a deep breath to steady herself, and internally, Marie sung with joy.

"I want to know the last thing you remember doing. Do you know who killed you?" Marie asked, deciding to play ignorant, just in case. She didn't want to upset Anna. After all, if their roles were reversed, Marie wouldn't have even trusted another ghost, especially so soon after she'd been killed. Anna hesitated, drawing herself into a tighter ball.

"I'd gotten off of the phone with Jack, my boyfriend," Anna said, her voice trembling as she said his name. I was talking with him out on the balcony. I hung up and put the phone in my pocket and then-," Anna let out a sob, gesturing to her neck. "It was- so quick. So quick," She sobbed, ducking her head to her knees to rock in her grief in private. Finally, after a few minutes, she rose. "I know who it was, though. _Deborah._" Anna hissed the word, eyes livid through her tears. "She killed me. I saw her. I know." She told Marie, conviction evident in her voice.

"Why?" Marie asked, and Anna pointed to her nightstand with a shaking hand.

"You saw him. Jack, my boyfriend. Deborah was insanely jealous. I hardly knew her- she was Jack's stalker from high school. I only met her once, when she threatened me, told me to stop dating Jack. I told her to go to hell, and then this happened." Anna said through gritted teeth, giving another sniffle to hold back tears.

"When did she threaten you? Where?" Marie asked, trying to think like a police officer, like Sherlock. He'd want to know everything, even though she saw him leaving out of the corner of her eye. He was insulting the man named Anderson with a smirk in place.

"A week ago, at the Piccadilly tube station," Anna relayed. "I was meeting Jack's parents," Anna recalled, her voice starting to waver again. Marie laid a hand on her knee to get her attention, seeking to soothe now. She'd gotten all the information she wanted, now she needed to heal the poor girl.

"Anna, you've been incredibly brave and helpful. I'm going to go now, and tell Sherlock everything you've told me so that he can bring Deborah to justice. Where can I find you when I have news? I know that you'll want to be alone for a while," Marie spoke quietly, and Anna let out an unsteady laugh.

"I'll stay here, on the balcony. I don't want to see my body anymore- I won't go to my funeral. I couldn't stand seeing Jack there," Anna told Marie, looking back to the balcony again. The Yarders had put her body in a bag and had zipped it up. Above all the noise they were making, Marie could hear Sherlock calling her impatiently.

"Stay strong, Anna. I'll be back soon," Marie told her, and Anna offered her a shaky smile.

"Thank you," She whispered, and Marie gave her a sad smile in return before disappearing. She shot through spectrums like wild fire, accidentally going through a bus of people as she miscalculated where Sherlock's cab was. Once she found it, she stayed with it, floating above the cab until it pulled up at Sherlock's flat. He paid the driver and practically ran inside.

"_Marie?!" _He called impatiently again as he arrived in his flat, pulling off his scarf with a huff.

"Yes, I'm here," Marie told him, and he flopped onto the couch, spreading out and placing his hands under his chin as if praying.

"Don't tell me anything yet- let me try to figure it out first." Sherlock told her, closing his eyes and going completely still. With a sigh, Marie shimmered into visibility and stood by his one grimy window, looking out at the street below. She was happy that she was helping Anna Hubert, but, at the same time, she was jealous that Anna could remember her death. Marie still didn't know why she'd been murdered, why she'd been taken from everything and everyone she'd ever loved. That missing piece had haunted her for ten years, and she despaired to wonder if she would ever know why. Left with her thoughts, she didn't notice that Sherlock was done thinking until he got up off the couch. "Marie," he started, the fire and the excitement gone from his voice.

"Yes, sorry," Marie blurted out, jerking away from the window, offering Sherlock an apologetic smile, but it didn't touch her eyes.

"Was this too disturbing for you, Marie? I-I don't want this to be too much for you," Sherlock admitted, rubbing the back of his neck and looking at the floor. Sentiment. He hated it, and the fact that he was making an effort to display it, just for her, helped to erase some of Marie's depression.

"I'm fine, Sherlock. The first one was bound to have an effect on me. It doesn't help that your first murder is a young woman who has a boyfriend she still loves and was serious with before she died." Marie told him, mustering up a half-hearted shrug. Sherlock unleashed a penetrating stare on her as he looked for his own evidence, not believing Marie until he could see for himself that she was 'fine'.

"Good, because I have several theories, but you have the answers I need," Sherlock said briskly, starting to pace as he threw himself back into the work. "Anna Hubert was killed in a highly personal attack, which automatically suggests a woman as our killer. If it was a man, the murder would have been more physical. Besides, the shoe impressions in the carpet would have been larger and heavier. Our attacker is a woman, most likely around the same age as the victim. Now, the _real _question was why she was killed on her balcony, where the chances of someone witnessing the murder would have increased. Our killer could be an idiot, as most people are, but Anna Hubert was murdered later at night, when no one saw, suggesting that the killer _waited _until she was out there for a reason. Why was the victim on the balcony? Was she stargazing? What do people _do _on balconies?" Sherlock rattled off without hardly stopping for breath.

"Regardless, on a search of the room, nothing was out of place, no signs of struggle, and nothing was moved- _oh." _Sherlock stopped dead on his tracks, staring at the opposite wall, his furrowed brow starting to unfurl as he realized something. "_OH!" _He repeated, clapping his hands in delight. "A twenty four year old woman, fairly well to do, owned a nicer purse, the contents of which revealed expensive makeup, a train ticket from Piccadilly dated one week ago, a wallet, _but no mobile phone!" _Sherlock threw out, his excitement building. "Where is her phone? She died on her balcony- talking on it perhaps? Did she receive a phone call that alerted her killer, did the killer hear something she didn't like?" Sherlock let out all at once, crossing the room to Marie, eyes practically sparkling.

"She was on the phone, talking with her boyfriend, Jack. The killer is a woman- named Deborah. She had 'stalked' Jack since high school; she was obsessed. Anna told me that Deborah approached her last week at the tube station at Piccadilly and threatened her to stop seeing Jack. Deborah killed Anna because she was jealous of her relationship." Marie told him, and Sherlock let out a little 'yesss' of glee, giving a little jump of delight.

"Yes, yes, this is _perfect! _The killer takes her weapon with her along with the object of her discontent- the _phone. _We need to find this woman, Deborah, and find the phone in her possession. We need CCTV footage from Piccadilly station proving their previous altercation, and we need a statement from Jack and it's all over. Marie, you are _brilliant!" _Sherlock crowed, dashing for his coat again. Without another word he was out the door.

Marie stared after him a moment, shaking her head, amused by his antics yet still slightly sad, before disappearing to take a spectrum after him.


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock went back to the scene via taxi, Marie floating above, as usual. When they got there, it was empty- the Yarders had already left. Pleased with his good fortune, Sherlock picked the lock and snuck back in to the apartment, Marie following silently, in a visible spectrum. "You're back already?" The hope filled voice of Anna made Marie's head turn. Anna appeared in a spectrum not visible to Sherlock (she was young and didn't know how to get there, and besides, she was shy), her face full of the hope that had been in her voice.

"We need to know Deborah's last name and where she lives, if you know. She took your mobile phone after you were dead. If we catch her with it, she can be arrested for your murder." Marie told her, and Sherlock whipped around, fascinated by the fact that Marie was talking to what looked like air. Anna frowned, looking at Sherlock.

"He makes me feel odd," she told Marie in an undertone, as if Sherlock could hear.

"I know- that's what they do. Just take a step back and try to ignore it as best you can. Eventually you'll build up a tolerance to it," Marie instructed, and Anna shivered, doing as she'd been told. Sherlock sent Marie a curious look, but she ignored it. Anna's confession had made her realize the obvious- that Anna was a very new ghost. She'd been warned of the rules, but when ghosts were young it was hard to control themselves- Marie knew that first hand. She made a mental note to keep an eye on Anna until the case was over, just in case.

"You wanted to know about Deborah? Her last name is Loch, if I remember correctly. I think she lives in Waterloo- either way, I think she's in my address book. I made sure to find out about her from Jack after she threatened me at Piccadilly Station. It's in my office, top desk drawer," She instructed.

"Check the top desk drawer of her desk in her office," Marie told Sherlock, who left just as briskly as he'd entered in a swish of coattails.

"You will get her, right? You'll bring her to justice, won't you?" Anna asked, drawing closer to Marie, starting to sound desperate. Marie glanced at her. Slightly trembling fingers, red-rimmed eyes, a pale face; Anna was struggling to keep herself together. Marie held out her arms, recognizing the signs, and Anna practically threw herself into the hug. Wishing that she had had someone present to help her solve her murder like this as well as to comfort her, Marie put love into the hug she gave Anna. She could sympathize more than anyone else Anna would ever meet, which made solving her case all the more hurtful to her. Despite that, Marie didn't care. She wanted to help- and Anna needed it.

"Sherlock is one of the most incredible people I have ever met. He will find Deborah, and your mobile. He will make sure that Deborah pays for her crime, I promise you," Marie told Anna, who held on tighter, back trembling as she held back a sob.

"The Ghost Council representative…he told me that some ghosts find that eternal rest. Do you think, if Deborah is caught, that I'll find it?" Anna asked, looking up to Marie, nothing but hope in her eyes.

"I hope that you do, Anna. You have no other reason to be stuck here, so I hope that you do, with all my heart," Marie told her, and Anna hugged her again, letting out a shaky breath.

"I want to find it, but at the same time…I want to stay. With Jake. I want to stay with him." Anna whispered into Marie's shoulder, and Marie felt herself tense. She pulled away from Anna gently, seeking eye-contact to drive her point home.

"No, you don't, Anna. Trust me, it's the worst feeling in the world." Marie told her firmly, and Anna's eyes roamed over her face, trying to understand. When she got it, her hands flew to her mouth.

"You loved someone, loved them so very much, and then you were murdered. Oh, that's _horrible!" _Anna cried, seeing the truth in Marie's face when she grimaced, turning her face away.

"I made him think that I moved on to a better place on purpose, hoping that he'd live a healthier life, but he still thinks of me often. I- I miss him more than anything else, and now I'm stuck watching him grow old, watching him move on in life without me. The self-control it takes to leave him alone, to not follow him everywhere, is almost too much, especially because he is Sherlock's brother. I see him all the time, and all I want to do is stay with him, let him know that I'm still here, but I won't do that to him. I don't want him to suffer." Marie told her, furiously wiping a few tears away by the end of her speech. "So, Anna, trust me," Marie said, getting her steel back when Anna just stared at her, open-mouthed, tears of her own on her face. "Solving your murder will bring closure to both you and Jack. You will still love each other, even though you are separated, and it's really better for both of you. You don't want to put yourself through that and you don't want to lose control one day and just…kill him." Marie reminded Anna of the awful truth, that she was still attracted to humans for the sole purpose of killing them. Even though she loved Jack, Anna wouldn't be able to resist trying to kill him if she stayed too long, got in too deep.

Anna shuddered, holding herself. "I understand. And I'm sorry, for you. I really am." She told Marie, who offered a weak smile in return. "That man, Sherlock, is he still trying to help you, or..?" Anna asked, and Marie felt a funny pang in her gut at the mention of Sherlock. He'd gone to get the address book, and then…

"Where is he? _Sherlock?" _Marie called, whirling around and moving straight through walls, trying to find him more quickly. She needn't have bothered- she could tell that Sherlock wasn't anywhere in the building. A bad feeling started in her stomach.

"It's ok- he probably went to the police, to find Deborah," Anna reassured Marie as she returned back to Anna's bedroom. Marie shook her head, feeling her apprehension build.

"No, not Sherlock. He's a genius, but he's proud and stupid. He probably went on his own, that _idiot!" _Marie took a deep breath to calm herself- she could get to Sherlock in seconds if she needed to, and he hadn't called her. Besides, wasn't it better that he hadn't heard her long speech about Mycroft, and missing him, dealing with the fact that she couldn't be with him every day? Wasn't it better that he hadn't heard her true emotions poured out in one quick paragraph? Her heart said yes, but her mind said no.

"Oh," Anna frowned, starting to feel Marie's worry. "We should go after him, then. I want to be there when he gets her," Anna added, a determined scowl forming on her face. "Do you need her address? I think I remember it-,"

"No, just take my hand. You haven't used the spectrums to travel yet, and I don't have time to show you," Marie interrupted, holding out her hand. Anna took it without hesitation, and then they were off. She heard Anna's gasp of shock before it was whipped away across three different spectrums as Marie raced across them, chasing her intuition to find Sherlock. It didn't take long to find the one-story, ranch style house in a suburb of Waterloo-in fact, they ended up in the middle of it. The house was deadly silent- except for- _that! _Marie's head snapped around to follow the barely audible shifting noise she had heard. It was coming from the other side of the house, and considering a heartbeat was in the same direction, she silently floated along a hand raised behind her in warning to Anna. Marie went down a dark hallway and turned left, into a bedroom, freezing in shock. Sherlock was on the floor, bound by zip-ties, starting to shift towards the bed, where, underneath the frame, lay a mobile phone that had to be Anna's. "Dammit, Sherlock!" Marie whispered, making him start. Marie flashed into awareness, her panic starting to die. "Did you call the Yard before you came out here?" Marie asked, crouching down next to him.

"Of course I did," Sherlock whispered, rolling his eyes. "She's still here, in the basement," Sherlock added, a flash of irritation flashing over his features as he shifted, trying to sit up more. Marie's eyes flashed up to his head, where she could see just a rivulet of blood by his hairline. The sight of it made her insides burn. If Deborah wasn't already going down for murder, Marie would have _ensured _that she spent time in prison for hurting Sherlock.

"You are an idiot," Marie told him harshly, giving a shiver as she solidified completely. She'd need to be solid in order to free Sherlock, which was priority number one. Sherlock's life burned her, as usual, as did the woman in the basement, but Marie had handled much worse when she was much younger, and Sherlock's life barely called out to her anymore; she was used to ignoring it. "Hold still," She told Sherlock, and he instantly held still. She reached out a finger, but sudden footsteps on the stairs made her freeze. _Deborah. _"Anna, can you distract Deborah for a bit?" Marie requested, not looking away from her task at hand, trying to stay calm. She needed to prioritize in order to get this done.

"Of course," Anna said firmly, and Marie watched her float back down the hallway before she focused on Sherlock's bonds. Zip-ties. Plastic. Lovely. Rope would have been much easier to deal with; now she'd have to burn it off quickly, with just a quick shock of fire from her finger. Her concern was that Sherlock's skin would be so _close _to her own, and while she could handle his presence while solid, she couldn't handle touching him. Her previously burned hand tingled in remembrance of touching Mycroft as she reached out a single finger, focusing her attention on one spot on the zip-tie.

"_You aren't real! I killed you!" _Deborah screamed from downstairs, and Sherlock flinched, almost throwing Marie off.

"Hurry," he told her in an undertone, body thrumming with tension and energy, waiting impatiently to be freed. Marie focused again, brows coming down as she selected one spot on the zip-tie. She let the power in her flow down, through her finger, and then, with a satisfying _pop_, the zip-tie snapped cleanly. Sherlock instantly pushed himself up to a better sitting position as Marie hastily moved to his ankles, letting the power flow again as she touched the thin tie with her finger.

"_You aren't real!" _Deborah practically snarled from down below as the zip tie snapped off of Sherlock's ankles. He scrambled to his feet, snatching up the mobile phone. Footsteps scrambled up the stairs.

"Marie, you have to go!" Anna called in warning, switching to a different spectrum, hiding from Deborah, appearing beside her. Marie instantly went to the same non-visible spectrum as Anna but powered up, determined to keep Sherlock from harm. Anna looked at her curiously, seeing how Marie was starting to literally glow. Deborah appeared in the doorway, a slim carving knife in hand. There was still blood on it- Anna's blood.

"You brought this on me, didn't you! You brought her here!" Deborah jabbered, pointing the knife at Sherlock. At almost the same time, outside, the screaming of sirens could be heard; the police had finally arrived. "If I killed her, I can kill you!" Deborah raved, pulling her arm back, as if to throw the knife. At that moment, reaching deep into her newly damaged soul, Marie found that cosmic power that had invaded her, that had refused to leave. _Might as well use it, _Marie thought, and released it as the knife left Deborah Loch's hand. The knife flew, hit the cosmic powers, and slowed down. For humans, time was still moving as quickly as it always did. For Marie, she had lots of time to turn around and use more cosmic power to force Sherlock to duck. She knew that he'd feel it, but that didn't matter. He'd be safe. Marie had just enough time to vaporize so that the knife passed harmlessly through her and embedded into the wall right where Sherlock's head had been seconds before. Time sped back up.

"Police!" Officers of the Yard were yelling, flooding the hallway. Marie hardly paid any attention to them as she shuddered a bit as her soul _filled back up. _She thought that by removing that cosmic force inside her she'd go back to normal, but the universe had simply filled that spot back up. Wiggling her fingers to make sure she was still ok, she mildly watched the officers taking no time at all to cuff Deborah and practically drag her out as she continued to scream and yell about the ghost of Anna. Sherlock, in the meantime, had stood up briskly, nudged the zip-ties under the bed, and was straightening his coat as Lestrade finally got to him.

"You'll need this as well." He said in way of greeting, presenting the DI with Anna's mobile phone. As Lestrade spluttered and yelled at Sherlock, gesturing wildly to the knife still quivering in the wall, Marie turned to Anna with the intent to thank her for distracting Deborah, but the words died in her throat. Anna was staring off into the distance, an odd look on her face. Confused, Marie flashed through a few spectrums, trying to see what she was looking at. She settled on the spectrum visible to Sherlock as a last resort, confused when she again didn't find anything.

"Anna?" Marie prompted, confused at her actions. Was she feeling alright? Marie knew that there were a lot of officers (_humans) _around, but Anna didn't look like she was struggling to remain in control, not at all. Instead, she looked…peaceful.

"Marie, what is that? Is that- _oh," _Anna said softly, almost dreamily, her eyes not leaving the fixed spot she could see and Marie could not. A lump formed in Marie's throat as Anna took an unsure step forward. She couldn't' see what Anna was looking at, but she knew perfectly well what it was. Anna had found that eternal peace- she'd probably seen it as soon as the cuffs were put on Deborah. She was free; she'd been granted rest and harmony for all eternity.

"Go to it, Anna." Marie told her quietly, and Anna barely nodded in agreement; all of her focus was captured by what she was seeing.

"Thank you, Marie," She whispered as she walked towards it, starting to become even more vaporous, her body shimmering. She'd made it halfway across the room before she vanished completely. Marie just stood there, tears in her eyes, staring at where Anna had gone, completely ignoring how Lestrade, Sherlock, and then, after a good two hours, the officers left. She was frozen with want, staring after something she couldn't have. Anna's murder was solved, hers wasn't. Marie was doomed to walk the Earth forever, while Anna was granted a peaceful rest. For the longest time, Marie could only think about if she even _wanted _to find the resting ground. While it was true that she was suffering on Earth, she still didn't want to leave. She had Mycroft to look after, she had Sherlock to stay with. As much as she knew she was supposed to find peace, she wasn't sure if she wanted too, and that scared her.

When she finally pulled herself away, it was evening. Deciding to check on Sherlock, she found him at home, flopped halfway out of his armchair with a book on his face. She couldn't help but crack a smile, even though she was still angry with him for being stupid and going alone. Even though she would always be there for him, she might not always make it in time. She might not always be so powerful (she'd gotten lucky being able to sun herself before the case started), and she had a feeling that Sherlock was going to rely heavily on her. She didn't like it. "Marie!" Sherlock suddenly exclaimed, whipping the book off of his face, making her start. He reached a long arm out towards the thermometer she hadn't noticed taped to the side table adjacent to him and tore the tape off. "Upon your arrival the room dropped two degrees Celsius in temperature." He announced, reading the thermometer with blistering speed.

"Hello to you too, Sherlock," Marie told him, crossing her arms. He saw her expression and scrambled out of the chair, placing the thermometer back onto the side table.

"Marie, I owe you an apology. I expected my first murder case to go in a smoother manner and I did not intend for Deborah Loch to be as…forceful as she was. Why I am thankful for your involvement, I am sorry for putting so much pressure on you so quickly, especially when this case was so…uncomfortable for you." Sherlock fired off all at once, treating Marie to the best puppy dog eyes she'd seen from him in a while. She was ready to continue to be angry at him, but the fact that he had recognized his mistake instantly and had then apologized made her feel better. Besides, she knew that Sherlock was a capable man- he usually _could _take care of himself. "Where is Anna?" He asked conversationally, seeing her acceptance of his apology just by reading her physical appearance alone.

"She moved on," Marie told him, and a quick look of disbelief crossed Sherlock's face. "Gone forever- off to eternal harmony." She finished heavily, flopping onto his couch, solidifying just in time. What she didn't see, was Sherlock's face morphing to a bit of misery as she turned away. She had forgotten that she'd been visible to Sherlock as she watched Anna cross over. Sherlock had seen that emotion, that grief and confusion, on Marie's face. Even though Sherlock was a genius, he couldn't fix that for Marie. He smoothed his face into a nice façade as to not alert Marie to his thoughts and, deep down, to his shame. "Congratulations, Sherlock," She told his mostly unreadable expression, flashing him a brief smile, jerking him out of his thoughts.

"I couldn't do the same for you," He said very quietly, expression clouding over despite his efforts to keep it smooth. Marie frowned and went vaporous, sliding through the couch and out of sight before reappearing at his side.

"Sherlock, stop that. You tried for me, once. I already told you that if I ever get another chance that you can help me- but there is nothing you can do. So don't beat yourself up over it, alright? You should be celebrating your first successful murder. Now, tell me all about what Lestrade did. No- what did _Donovan_ do? That woman hates you." Marie chuckled, and only after Sherlock had treated her to another searching look did he relent. They spent the rest of the evening talking about Sherlock's first murder, how Lestrade had nearly popped a vein in his forehead until he realized that Sherlock had completely solved the case in less than 24 hours, and how Donovan had gotten so angry with Lestrade and Sherlock she had stormed out of the Yard.

Over time, Lestrade gave Sherlock more cases, more murders. Even though Marie didn't have to save his life on every single case, she did accompany him on every murder. Sometimes, the spirit had already moved on. Most times, the poor victim was still around and willing for Marie and Sherlock to help them. On a few rare occasions, some ghosts were so angry at their predicament that they had tried to attack Marie for approaching them, which had always livened things up a bit. Marie had always escaped unscathed, however, and that only added to the excitement of solving cases. Sherlock ripped through all types of murders- to ones that he solved within minutes of looking at the body, to ones that took him almost two weeks to solve. No matter how long it took him, Sherlock always solved the case and the ghost always passed on.

Although Sherlock wouldn't admit it, it was a nice feeling. He liked helping people, liked seeing the happiness on Marie's face when she told him that another ghost had found peace. It was an invisible reward he received for the work he did, and he loved it. At the same time, every success was also a reminder of his one failure. In secret, he requested the evidence from Marie's cold case and kept them locked away in his room. He resisted the urge to take them out all the time, especially the bullets, remembering all too well that Marie could be with him at any time and he wouldn't know it. That reminder that he still had one cold case irked him. As happy as Marie was every time they sent a ghost on to rest, he could see the sadness in her eyes. He knew that as happy as she was working with him she was still suffering, even though she hid it. Marie had told him once before that even though Sherlock was her friend she was alone, and he had never understood that statement better than he did then.

As Sherlock began to become filled with ennui at the never ending stream of dull, pointless murders and crimes that filled a few years of his life, his mind wandered back to drugs at first. They had taken away his boredom so _quickly. _Despite that, he also remembered how quickly they had ripped apart his life. Knowing better than to go back to them, his mind turned to Marie, to a distraction that reminded him of his morals. While his actual time with Marie was the only 'human' contact Sherlock allowed himself to receive, Marie had a life outside of her time with him. She would be gone for sometimes weeks at a time traveling the world and gathering energy. She would still bring him back strange artifacts to fill his flat with (he still had the cactus, now almost fully grown, that resided in his guest bedroom). Marie had other friends, other _ghost _friends, who could relate to her better. They understood her loneliness when he could not, not completely. It was for those reasons that she wouldn't always be by his side. It was most likely healthier for both of them to be apart sometimes, but Sherlock still wanted a reminder of her presence even when Marie could not be there.

It didn't take long for him to find an elegant solution, and it didn't take him long to obtain his reminder.

What did take a long time, was for Marie to notice, which interested him greatly. Part of his want for a reminder was a want to run an experiment on Marie. She had always refused to let him run experiments on her powers or even her being ("It's against the _law, _Sherlock!"). Sherlock was embarrassed to think that it had taken him so long to come up with an experiment he could run that wasn't against _ghost _law. It was still highly illegal, but he had the best intentions and was the neatest and best thief in the world. He spent only one night in Oxford to get what he needed, and left things almost exactly as he found it. His treasure safely in hand, Sherlock waited. He expected an immediate outward reaction in Marie, but when she didn't instantly return from wherever she was (exploring the Baltic Sea), he gathered interesting data: changes made to her actual remains had no effect on her ghostly being.

With that in mind, Sherlock waited patiently until Marie returned from her journey in the Baltic. When she did, she was in a glorious mood that lifted even Sherlock's spirits. She whirled about his dark and dirty little flat, sparkling like a sun she'd picked up so much light. She deposited an ancient fossilized rock on his kitchen table with a flourish while describing her trip. Sherlock simply sat patiently in his armchair, his reminder and treasure in his arms, and made polite, vague comments, just enough to keep Marie talking. Finally, after about fifteen minutes, she plopped onto his couch, still grinning, and looked at him clearly for the first time.

Her smile fell within seconds.

"Sherlock, that's a skull," She noted, tone slightly confused as she sat up and leaned closer to examine it. "Is it real? Where did you get it?" She asked, and he cocked an eyebrow, completely fascinated. She didn't even recognize her own remains! It was true that she didn't spend much time in her coffin, but he thought for sure that she would retain some sort of proclivity to her own decaying body. Marie looked at his expression, confused, and understood a moment later as Sherlock ran a thumb up from the occipital bone of the skull up to the parietal section, sending her a pointed look. "You," she hissed, bolting to her feet. "You _didn't!" _She yelled, pointing accusingly at Sherlock.

"Marie, there is no reason to be upset. You clearly don't have any lingering ties to it," Sherlock said blithely, examining her skull again, as he had numerous times over the past few days. He knew its exact specifications, everything from the size of her jaw to the dimensions of her now empty cranium. It was the perfect slightly friendly reminder for him to be the person Marie wanted him to be, as well as to look over the evidence from her cold case as often as he physically could, until he had every known fact memorized.

"_No reason to be upset?!"_ Marie cried, the room growing dark at the corners and the window panes starting to rattle. The room grew icy cold. "You stole my skull! You desecrated my grave, and for what? _For what?!" _She practically screamed before blasting apart, vanishing from view. Sherlock stared at the exact spot she'd left, fascinated as the dark shadows she'd conjured disappeared. The temperature slowly began to rise as he turned his new skull friend to face him.

"I don't think she took it very well," He told it, wondering slightly if it was morbid to talk to 'Marie' about Marie. Curious.

Two weeks later, Sherlock was no longer curious; he was worried and ashamed. He had expected Marie to return, to calmly ask him why he'd stolen her skull, and then they'd talk it out and be done with it. However, Marie had not returned, and the time she was gone screamed at Sherlock's sense of guilt until he was biting his lip to keep from calling her. It took him two weeks to get over his pride and finally call her. It took a few tries, his voice getting progressively louder, until Marie suddenly appeared with a flash, glowering inches from his face. "What. Do. You. Want. Sherlock?" Marie hissed at him, folding her arms and shooting him such a poisonous look that Sherlock had to drop his gaze.

"I wanted to apologize…again," Sherlock added, realizing that he was doing a lot of that lately. Marie cocked an eyebrow to show she was listening, but her icy façade didn't change. "After the Hubert case I had the thought that I often times act in a way that is not necessarily…good. It's not good, and usually I look to you for guidance although I am usually too proud to admit it," the words were flowing now, and Marie was still listening, so Sherlock threw it all on the line, "and so to find a way to remind myself to have morals, I came upon the best solution- a reminder of you. I'll admit that I was also curious to see what would happen to you if your body was," he swallowed, seeing Marie's suddenly furious look, "changed, but my main intent of taking your skull was to have you with me when you aren't with me." Sherlock summed up lamely. Why was it that with any other person he was the cold, articulate and definitely more intelligent member of a conversation, but when it was with Marie he was reduced to almost being a child? It was a phenomenon that he craved and feared at the same time.

Marie stared at him for the longest time before her expression wavered. She sighed, turning away from him to walk over to his mantelpiece, where her own skull was grinning blankly at her. She raised a finger, solidified it, and then touched the bleached bone gently, the edges of her flickering slightly as she felt the smooth texture. "Did it have to be the skull?" Marie asked finally, still examining the offending object, and Sherlock felt a pang of sharp relief. She was forgiving him; they would remain friends. During the two weeks that Marie had vanished Sherlock was terrified that he'd jeopardized his one and only friendship forever. Now that he could see her forgiveness, his knees felt almost weak.

"Would you like me to return it?" He asked quietly, joining her at the mantel. She gazed at it a moment longer, a light but sad smile lifting the edge of her lip.

"No, I don't think so. If you willingly went out to try and find some morals then I don't want you to forget that. Keep my skull, if it makes you happy. It's not like I'm using it." Marie told him, turning to meet his gaze. "Just _ask _next time, alright?" She begged, and Sherlock let out a weak chuckle.

"I promise," He told her, and Marie let out a lighter, happier sigh.

"Good." She replied, and, just like that, they were once again friends.

* * *

**Sorry for not updating in a while- I've been busy! I hope you enjoyed this bit- and my piece with the skull. I just HAD to make it belong to Marie. I mean, come on, wouldn't you?**

**Stay tuned for more!**


	11. Chapter 11

Once Marie had forgiven Sherlock for stealing her skull out of her grave, the two resumed their friendship without a hitch. Sherlock was more than glad to have her around- his flat was really quite lonely without her. He spent a few days running experiments (Marie was extremely useful in the sense that she could light his Bunsen burners with her pyrotechnic powers, even though she shot him a look every time he asked) and then a few more setting up a website for himself, calling it _The Science of Deduction. _Marie laughed herself silly at the title, which made Sherlock sulk, but he refused to change it.

A few days of moping later, he checked his website on a lark and found a case. Not just trolling spam, not boring cases, but an actual _case. _It was about a woman in Florida whose husband, according to the woman, had killed a man over a kilo of cocaine. Her husband was facing trial for the murder, but unless the prosecution could prove that her husband had also been involved in the drug trade (which they hadn't been able to do), he wouldn't face the death penalty. Along with being a murderer and a drug runner, her husband had also threatened his wife's life more than once, both physically and verbally. Seeking to soothe her nerves as well as to gain justice for the murdered man, the woman, by name of Mrs. Elizabeth Hudson, had found Sherlock's website and had asked for help.

"Interesting, isn't it?" Sherlock asked, pacing the flat briskly. "She might be criminally liable somehow, seeking to cover her tracks, but it is highly unlikely, which makes this even better. Besides, it's in the States, and I've never been," Sherlock was throwing out his thoughts at random as he whirled around. Marie frowned at the laptop screen she was looking at, the screen that showed the letter this Mrs. Hudson had sent him.

"How do you even know if it's real? This is the Internet, Sherlock. 'Mrs. Hudson' could be a creepy old man from just about anywhere." Marie voiced her concern, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. He leaned over and pressed a few buttons on the laptop. The screen switched to an article from a newspaper called _The Miami Herald. _The article was about a murder trial about to be conducted for a Mr. Keith Hudson. The article detailed exactly what Mrs. Hudson had emailed Sherlock about.

"Besides, I called her and told her I'd take the case," Sherlock added dryly, flopping onto the couch and reaching for his box of nicotine patches.

"Oh, so it is real? You're going to Florida?" Marie questioned, and Sherlock confirmed it with a nod as he leapt to his feet.

"I am, and I am hoping that you accompany me as well." Sherlock told her as he started to strip the room for important items he'd need.

"He's already going down for murder, right? But we're missing a kilo of cocaine?" Marie mulled it over as Sherlock hummed in assent. "If the man murdered is a ghost and if he's still around, I'll ask him if he knows anything about its whereabouts, but I'm afraid I won't be of much use otherwise." Marie settled for, and Sherlock made a snorting noise.

"You are always useful," he muttered to himself. Internally blushing at Sherlock's admittance, Marie helped him pack and went off to scout the residence of Mrs. Hudson first, as she had many times before for Sherlock. It took him an extra two days to get across the Atlantic, and when his rental car finally made it to the small house in the middle of a Florida swamp, Sherlock looked fairly disgruntled. "America," he sneered to Marie as soon as he got to her. "Ridiculous airport security, idiots, all of them, and then there's the issue with the _driving." _Sherlock nearly spat the word, glaring at the car that seemed very odd to him with the steering wheel on the left-side instead of the right.

"I take it you had fun getting here?" Marie questioned cheerfully, letting sarcasm flow to show her good mood. She'd taken the two days to spy on the lovely Mrs. Hudson, who had clearly moved over to the States from England to be with her husband. She was a darling woman, nearing old age, who was more concerned with brewing a pot of tea and watching her shows than the horrible things her husband had dragged her into. Once her spying work was completed, Marie had spent the day sunning on Mrs. Hudson's rooftop. While Sherlock's mood was as dark as a thundercloud, she was glowing with energy, at the top of her game. Sherlock sent her a scathing look to answer her question as he headed for the house.

"Anything _useful _I need to know?" Sherlock stressed the word 'useful' and Marie had to hide back a snort. Sherlock was incredibly funny and pouty to her when he was in a bad mood, and laughing only made him worse, which was funny, of course, but not when he was on a case.

"Mrs. Hudson is a doll, a gentle soul, and in all honesty, would probably rest better if she knew that her husband was being put to death. He's done a number on her; I can tell by the soul residue in the house. She has nothing but bad memories here. Once the divorce finalizes and her husband is convicted, she's moving straight back to London. She's fragile, so _be nice." _Marie stressed the words, sending a cosmic shove Sherlock's way. He scowled at her, catching his balance from the push. He straightened his suit coat before knocking on the door.

The front door opened, and Mrs. Hudson peered at Sherlock Holmes through her screen door, sizing him up carefully. She was very good at placing people when she first met them (she'd ignored the signs in her current husband out of love for him, but that was a different story), and so first impressions were everything. She took in Sherlock's posh look, his youth, and his confidence that was present even in the sweltering Florida swamps. "Sherlock Holmes?" She questioned, and to Marie's shock and delight, Sherlock flashed her a polite smile.

"Ma'am," he greeted her, and Mrs. Hudson opened the screen door, giving Sherlock an affectionate look.

"Don't ma'am me, young man, I'm not that old. Come in, come in! It's cooler inside than out," She invited, ushering Sherlock into the kitchen. It was small but immaculately clean and very homey. "I'd offer you a cup of tea, but it's much too hot here for that, and I refuse to make 'iced tea'." Mrs. Hudson's nose wrinkled as she mentioned the cold version of the British staple, and Sherlock's amused smile was entirely real. He found himself liking Mrs. Hudson already, even if she was a busybody. He could see wisdom and a motherly figure in her, one that would love without being cold and stiff and unreachable. He liked it.

"Thank you for your hospitality," he told her, and Mrs. Hudson tisked.

"Of course, dear, you did come half-way across the ocean for me; it's the least I can do, honestly. Can I get you anything else? Biscuits? Cake? Breakfast?" Mrs. Hudson fired off a few options, frowning at Sherlock's size. "You're as thin as a rail, young man, doesn't anyone feed you? Goodness gracious," she continued with her assessment, and instead of being annoyed with her prying, Sherlock found it to be nice. She cared; she was treating him like her own son. Considering he had never been treated as anyone's son, not even by his own mother, Sherlock loved it. Of course, he also craved the attention, but this type of attention was much more real than the superficial attention he received for solving cases.

"A glass of water, perhaps," he suggested, and she tisked again, apparently dissatisfied by his meager request. Nonetheless, she brought him an ice cold glass of water.

"Now, I suppose you'll want to get down to business." She sighed, some of her spunk leaving her as she mentioned the situation at hand. She winced as she sat down, favoring her one side over the other- a sore hip, then. Seeing an older woman deflate like that, especially one he already liked so much bothered Sherlock. He suddenly had a burning urge to solve the case- and quickly.

"Yes. Your husband will face the death penalty if proof can be found that he was also using narcotics, correct? And one kilo of cocaine is missing somewhere, somewhere where it had previously been in his possession?" Sherlock questioned right away, leaving no time for pleasantries, and Mrs. Hudson nodded, running a slightly gnarled hand over her smooth tabletop.

"My husband was very careful. He never brought any paraphernalia home with him, but I know the signs of an addict when I see one," Mrs. Hudson's eyes suddenly became very steely, and Sherlock resisted the urge to shift in his seat. "Also, the man he killed, Michael Trejando, was a drug mule. He wasn't the dealer, but the distributor. The prosecuting attorney has collected the evidence from witnesses that say that my husband was a regular purchaser of his cocaine, but unless we collect more than circumstantial evidence, the judge will throw out the charges." Mrs. Hudson switched into the talk with such a nonchalant air that it surprised Marie. Here she was, a sweet old woman, talking so calmly about trying to get her own husband killed by the law. She had completely accepted her husband's criminal actions and was now focused on moving forward. It was impressive, her strength of will.

"And is Mr. Hudson being charged with battery and assault?" Sherlock asked very swiftly but turned his intense gaze on Mrs. Hudson before looking pointedly at her left hip. She looked at him, looked at her hip, and then shifted a bit, uncomfortable.

"Well, you are a good detective, aren't you? Yes, Tim fractured my hip, but no, he isn't being charged with assault as well. It's useless and will take away from the charges that really matter- and that is possession and usage of cocaine, as well as his murder charge. I have no interest in anything that could put those charges in jeopardy." Mrs. Hudson said firmly, rolling with Sherlock's point easily, even though her one hand gripped the edge of the table tightly, as if to ground herself. Sherlock's eyebrows pulled into a furrowed line. He was caring all of a sudden; sentiment was clogging his mind palace. Logically, Mrs. Hudson was correct, and that strictly black-and-white side of him (which was the majority of him) completely agreed with her assessment. On the other hand, a nagging piece of him knew that part of what she was saying was wrong.

"Please do not downplay your husband's actions, Mrs. Hudson. As a consulting detective, I focus on getting my clients justice, no matter the situation." Sherlock responded a voice that was just as firm, and Mrs. Hudson blinked rapidly before pulling out a lace handkerchief and dabbing at her eyes. Marie sent Sherlock a look; she'd _told him _to be gentle. Sherlock ignored her, somehow knowing that he was doing the right thing. Mrs. Hudson made one last dab and then started laughing weakly.

"You are extraordinary, young man, but I really must insist that those charges not be filed. If he's already heading for the chair then he'll be thinking about every wrong he's ever committed as he goes. The guilt will weigh on him, I am sure of it. What matters now is finding the evidence to get him there." Mrs. Hudson reiterated, and Sherlock offered her a tight smile in return. His ruthless need for justice was more than willing to march into that courtroom and offer seventeen different points of evidence off of just Mrs. Hudson alone that could stand to convict Mr. Hudson on charges of assault and battery, but if this kind, strong woman didn't want him to then, of course, he would relent.

"I assume this residence has already been searched thoroughly," Sherlock threw out as a segway to his next questions. He already knew just by looking at the outside of the house that the dwelling was so small that there was no possibility of Tim Hudson hiding anything without Mrs. Hudson knowing or without the police finding it. That meant that he had other places he went to in times of need, in times of desperation for the drug. As an addict himself, Sherlock knew how Mr. Hudson would have thought when he was going about hiding stashes, especially ones he murdered a man for. Sherlock knew exactly what to look for- he only had to ask the right questions.

"Yes, the police picked my poor house clean, and I can't think of anywhere Tim could have gone. He'd be in his boat most of the time, but the police already searched it, and it came up clean," Mrs. Hudson told him, rubbing the table top again, and her one comment sparked instant recognition in Sherlock. He stood up and straightened his suit.

"That is all I need to hear- I should have new information for you by the end of the day," Sherlock said plainly, and Mrs. Hudson quickly stood, recognizing a want for dismissal when she saw it. Sherlock had already concluded that an addict like Mr. Hudson would have a private place to hide his stash- and since he could get farther by boat way out in the middle of nowhere than he could by car, it only made sense that Mr. Hudson used his boat to hide his drugs.

"Of course- if you're sure, dear. You don't need to look at anything else?" Mrs. Hudson questioned.

"Just the boat," Sherlock said blithely, and the older woman blinked.

"Yes, of course. The dock is in the back of the house. I'd go with you, but the terrain is rougher and my hip is in no state to go gallivanting about on boat rides through the swamp. If you go _anywhere, _make sure you have that map in the boat with you, alright?" She warned Sherlock, leading him to the door.

"I will take every precaution," he reassured her, and she sent him a heart-warming smile.

"Good. Be careful, young man!" she called after him as he walked around the edge of the house. As soon as Sherlock had made the hike for about five minutes down a steep slope to the muddy, swampy river where the boat dock was, Marie appeared to him, grinning.

"You like her," She commented as Sherlock walked across the dock. He ignored her as steadfastly as possible, but she saw the slight tension in his shoulders. He didn't want to admit it, but he liked Mrs. Hudson quite a bit. "Sherlock, you don't have to be ashamed or scared of making friends with someone who has a pulse, you know." Marie told him as Sherlock stepped carefully into the flat speedboat that belonged to Mr. Hudson. He waved a hand dismissively at her, as if to say 'shoo'. He was trying to think, and being distracted by sentiment wouldn't help anyone, especially because Marie had hit a deep fear of his right on the head. Marie had been the one person to truly respect him in his life so far. While it was true that she had originally been alive, it wasn't until after she was dead that they had actually become friends. "So, Capitan Holmes, were be this vessel a'takin' us?" Marie adopted a 'pirate' sounding voice after a few minutes, and Sherlock sent her such a vivid glare, his face quickly blushing at the fact that Marie had brought up that sensitive bit of his childhood, that she burst into laughter, spinning lazy circles in the strong sunshine.

Sherlock searched the boat for evidence as the heat in his face died down, but could only conclude that Mr. Hudson only used his boat to go, at most, in a ¼ mile radius around his house. There were no traces of a secret stash of _anything _on the boat; it was simply transportation, not a hiding place. He had Marie check the vessel with her more…supernatural powers as he fired up the boat and started out in a quarter mile radius around Mrs. Hudson's property, looking for anything that looked like a promising place to hide drugs, but she didn't find anything besides soul residue. After an hour, Sherlock was getting frustrated. The sun was oppressively hot as it beat off the muddy waters they were slowly chugging through. There were lots of mosquitos, and Marie was obviously enjoying the sunshine. However, whenever Sherlock thought of turning back, he thought of poor Mrs. Hudson and her fractured hip. He knew how the wound had been inflicted, and he didn't like it. She had been reclining, probably sprawled on the ground trying to get up, and Mr. Hudson had kicked her in the hip, pressing downwards. It wouldn't have taken much force to crack Mrs. Hudson's aging bones.

"Sherlock- what's that?" Marie asked, stopping her lazy swirls above the water to point to something. Across a narrow channel to their right up ahead, inbetween large hibiscus plants, Sherlock could see the ruins of an old house, abandoned out in the swamps.

"A good place to start looking- look at the beach," Sherlock said, pointing to the shoreline as he steered the boat up. Faint tracks could be seen in the sand- someone had pulled up here a while ago and had stayed a long while before leaving. Sherlock gladly leapt out of the boat and was unapologetic when he asked Marie to use some of her own power to push the boat a safe distance onto the beach to keep it from leaving with the tide. She rolled her eyes at him (he'd been asking for more 'favors' once he knew that she had so much power, the lazy sod) but complied, and floated next to him as they approached the run-down old house. The boards had gone grey, bleached by the sun. The roof was close to collapsing on the front left side, and the wood of the porch was starting to crack in its old age. Sherlock strode up onto the porch like he owned the place, but Marie hesitated. Something felt…odd. Off. "Comeon, Marie!" Sherlock called impatiently, the ancient screen door slamming shut behind him.

Swallowing her complaints, Marie floated up onto the property and through the screen door, shaking her head to clear it. Of course the _ghost, _out of the both of them, would have reservations about the house being haunted. Even though Marie was dead, and had been for over a decade, she still had those silly human notions in her head. "Fascinating," Sherlock noted, watching a rather large spider spinning a web in the archway to the now long abandoned parlor. Marie shuddered as the beastly thing curled into the center, watching them with all 8 eyes.

"Yes, lovely. Can we move on?" She asked, repressing another shudder. She didn't like the feel of that house, for reasons she couldn't identify. Sherlock snorted but complied, checking the first floor. He found nothing but old boot prints in the dust- someone had come here and looked for a good hiding spot, just like Sherlock was. "Sherlock, maybe you should wait outside- those don't look safe," Marie suggested, seeing the state of the stairs when Sherlock declared that the drugs had to be on the second floor. She suggested it partly because of the old construction, but mostly because she couldn't shake that dread building in her stomach. She didn't _want _Sherlock to go to the second floor. It felt unsafe to the very core of her being.

"Please. This house was clearly built in the fifties," Sherlock retorted, scaling the stairs with ease.

"Sherlock, come on," Marie insisted, easily floating past him and blocking his way. "This doesn't seem safe. I really think we should go." She pressed, and Sherlock sent her such a piercing look that she found it hard to hold her ground. He pointedly side-stepped her and walked into the first room off the hall. It was very dark- the one window was so grimy that very little light came through it. The room was large, full of old junk and antique furniture.

"Perfect," Sherlock breathed, treading carefully then. He looked for marks in the dust on the floor, determined to try and find out where Mr. Hudson had stashed his cocaine without destroying the credibility of the evidence. Marie shuddered as she stepped into the room, her eyes straining to see into the very back corners of the dark room. She felt stifled, suffocated there, and she didn't like it. The sun suddenly felt very far away. "Aha!" Sherlock crowed, advancing on an old armoire towards a back corner of the room.

"Sherlock," Marie called sharply, stopping him in his tracks. She finally realized what she didn't like about the room. Horror threatened to close her throat as she eyed that dark corner, that corner that was _unnaturally _dark. Something was lurking in that corner, something very not human. Something deadly. The sound of footsteps made her snap out of her thoughts- Sherlock had ignored her, as he had this whole time, and was continuing his march over to the old piece of furniture. The darkness stirred in the spectrums. A quick glance around her showed that the other corners of the room were coming alive as well. "Sherlock, _no!" _Marie yelled at him, nearly vaporizing as she flew forward and cut him off, just as a being emerged from the dark, enshrouded in darkness. She threw her arms out in a protective gesture as the being leered at her, starting to laugh.

The room was full of dark ghosts, the very same ghosts Thomas had warned her about. She had let Sherlock walk right into a den full of evil. The very atmosphere of the room was shifting, becoming more terrifying, more oppressive. Marie found herself shining brighter to compensate, whirling to defend Sherlock's back as the dark beings behind them meandered too close for her liking, hissing things at her and sizing Sherlock up. For Sherlock, who could only see the shadows moving and nothing else, the experience was all the more terrifying. He couldn't see the threat he was facing, and that was one of the few things that scared him. Give him an angry criminal and a knife fight, and he was confident to the point of arrogant. When he was blind to his enemy, Sherlock was defenseless- and he hated it.

Chin up, her body nearly trembling with the tension and fear and protectiveness she was feeling all at once, Marie whirled back to Sherlock's front as the first ghost to have wandered forward raised a hand. With a sharp crackle, Marie sent a ball of light power at his hand, making him snap it back to his side with a sinister hiss. "Leave. Him. Alone." She snarled, making her 'ownership' of Sherlock clear.

"_Hmmm, you own him, does you?"_ The dark being hissed at her. The darkness around them literally swirled as the ghosts closing in on her and Sherlock spun in a circle, laughing in shrill shrieks that made her literally shiver and shake at the sound. Thankfully, Sherlock had stayed silent, his eyes intent on Marie. He knew that something was horribly wrong, but he also knew that he was far out of his depth. His logical mind screamed at him for disregarding Marie's discontent and her worries about the old house. He felt his skin start to crawl as what had just been shadows to him before morphed into a heavy, compressing darkness that swirled around them like a dark fog, blocking the meager light from the window. The only light in the room now came from Marie. He had seen her glow before, but she was practically shining then, like a star. He could see the fear in her face, and that made him afraid. He had never seen Marie afraid, not of anything. She'd been afraid _for _him, but not of anything tangible.

"He's mine," Marie confirmed, glowing brighter yet to make some of the darkness curling by Sherlock's feet back off. The house shuddered at her light, and the dark retreated a bit, swirling faster now.

"_Light little ghosties can't own humansss." _The lead being disagreed, switching to a spectrum Sherlock could see, his body becoming visible from the indiscernible mass of black he'd been a part of moments before. He was clearly an older ghost- perhaps the original owner of the house. He was from the fifties, dressed like he was from the fifties. The only thing that gave away why he was a dark being was the knife wound to his kidney. To show agreement with the lead ghost, the darkness started to press closer and closer, forcing Marie and Sherlock closer together.

"Back off!" Marie snarled, suddenly sending out a powerful flash of light that shot through the surrounding black in a ring. It writhed and screamed in response, making Sherlock cringe at the sound, covering his ears. "He is mine- now clear out!" She ordered, setting her jaw as the lead ghost leaned closer to her, eyes starting to flash a deadly color.

"_Everyone payssss a fee for intruding here." _He informed her, licking his lips in anticipation. _"The human's life is so juicy sweet- still so newww. Give him up and you can join ussss."_

"You can't touch him." Marie hissed back, a furious look crossing her face. The ghost winced as she glowed brighter in fury before turning back to his comrades to consult them. Marie didn't look at Sherlock- she couldn't bear to. Now that she'd refused this ghost, she had no idea what was going to happen. If she'd had a heartbeat, it would be thundering through her, but Sherlock's was beating fast enough and strong enough for both of them, which only made things worse. To the dark beings, it was like an invitation to kill him.

"_For you, a special deal. He goesss free and you stay. You'll be just as delicioussss." _The ghost offered, and Marie stared at him in shock, her fury quickly being replaced with even more terror.

"What?" She repeated, and the dark ghost chuckled, leaning closer to her. The darkness around them shrieked with more laughter, starting to spread over top of them in a dome shape. As the dark mass of ghosts writhed past Marie's light, Sherlock could discern individual silhouettes, just faint grey lines from among the rest of the dark. Once and awhile, he could see an eye, a face. It filled him with such horror that it rooted him to the spot, unable to move even if he'd wanted to. Marie had been very hesitant to talk about the darker ghosts (and not just because it was against ghost law), and now he could see why. He could see how even Marie didn't have much experience with them and how that insecurity frightened her even more.

"_So naïve. So younngggg. The Ghost Councilll warned you, didn't they? Saiddd we were evil and twistedddd, didn't they? A soul is a soul, no matter where it comes frommm. Some ghost souls taste even __**better **__than human ones, don't they?" _the lead ghost asked his fellows, and they shrieked in approval. Marie took a step back from him, nearly going through Sherlock, expression horrified. She never, not in a million years, could have thought that it was possible for ghosts to be cannibals. Now that she knew, she wasn't sure if she had ever wanted to know, especially when it was possibly her soul on the line. If they took hers, they would take Sherlock's. Her mind flicked through options as the dark mass around them screamed with mirth and spun a tighter web. She could risk touching Sherlock to get him out, but no human had ever gone through the spectrums. Even if she did take him, the dark ghosts could follow, she might alert the Ghost Council, and Sherlock could die. There was no chance of Sherlock running, getting to the boat and fleeing, absolutely none.

That left only one option.

Steeling herself, Marie stepped closer to Sherlock and reached for more life power, more light. She pushed it into a hard barrier around them, a shield. Then, much to Sherlock's alarm, Marie stepped out of the safety she'd created. He watched, half in awe and half in dread as he saw her power up for the first time. Every facet of her literally sparkled with light and she seemed to thrum with energy. Her fingers wiggled and shook as she worked cosmic power from hand to hand. "If you want him, you'll have to fight for him," Marie told them in a steely voice, and the laughter instantly died. A frighteningly savage expression formed on the leader's face, and then, without warning, the dark mass attacked.

"Marie!" Sherlock yelled in fright from his bubble of protection as she vanished from view, buried under a mass of black, whirling fog. While most of it headed for Marie, a few lingering beings pounded against the barrier, screaming and writhing against the light surface as it burned them. Half of Sherlock wanted to throw himself at the barrier in an attempt to break it so that he could get out and help Marie, but the other half screamed at him to stay still.

The black mass that was Marie and the rest of the dark beings whirled around the room, passing harmlessly through furniture. Every once and awhile, a shaft of pure light would escape from the dark mass, and the evil ghosts would scream and writhe, pressing down on Marie tighter. That behavior made it easy for Sherlock to figure out what was going on- the black ghosts were trying to put out Marie's light so that it couldn't hurt them. Whenever light escaped, it burned at them. Suddenly, Sherlock was very glad that Marie had had all the free time in the swamps before Sherlock had arrived. He suddenly felt horrible for getting grumpy over the fact that Marie had been basking in the sunlight as they traveled down the river.

That light could make the difference between life and death, for the both of them.


	12. Chapter 12

Marie was seconds away from being murdered _again_.

All of the dark ghosts had sprung on her at once, seeking to suffocate her and put out her light. Once she couldn't fight back, she knew that they'd tear into her, find her soul, and destroy that too. She was terrified by the idea of them eating her soul and then feasting on Sherlock's life until they killed him too. Desperation that she'd felt over a decade ago in the face of death echoing around her, Marie reached back for that cosmic power and released it, forcing light into the stream of power as well. Those two forces pushed back against the darkness pushing in, nearly putting them in a stalemate. Once and a while, one side would lash through into the other. When it was Marie's hit, the light would shine through the black mass around her, causing it to shriek and writhe. When the darkness struck in on Marie, she felt a sharp, burning pain and the suffocating feeling of death until she had to focus on keeping Sherlock safe, keeping the black mass from killing her, _and _from hyperventilating all at once. Brief flashes of the terror she'd felt right before her death, the only portion she could remember, made it hard to keep her head.

To try and center herself, Marie started to solidify just sides of her body to add more weight to the ball as it whirled around the room. The extra weight increased the speed until the mass of black ghosts around her was traveling at an impressive speed. A plan hastily formed in her mind, one that would hurt her a lot, but one that might end the fight once and for all. Seeing no other choice, Marie gritted her teeth, preparing herself.

The spinning black ball got increasingly more violent in its movements as it began to fling itself around the room at a greater speed. For Sherlock, trapped in his protective dome, he wasn't sure if that was a good sign or a bad one. His brilliant mind frantically tried to think of solutions, to answers, but all he could do was watch the dark shroud, half terrified and half fascinated, even in the face of death. Helpless, Sherlock stayed perfectly still, half leaning towards the glowing light barrier around him from his attempt to run forward to help Marie when the dark first attacked her. Suddenly, there was a loud crash as the black ball bounced _off of _a piece of furniture and then there was an equally loud crash as it slammed through the gritty window, shattering it. The dark screamed and screamed outside as it was subjected to the harsh sunlight. From his spot in the bubble, Sherlock could just see pieces of it withering and literally exploding in the sunlight, unable to stand being in that kind of light and energy after so long in the darkness. After what seemed like an eternity, the shrieking outside stopped. When no sound took its place and Marie didn't appear, Sherlock felt his worry threaten to choke him. He'd never been so frightened in his entire life. "Marie? _Marie!" _he called, forcing his feet to move so that he could try to get a better view out of the window.

"I-I'm here, Sherlock," Marie's voice was tired and very quiet, but it was there.

"Are you alright? Where are you? What's happening? Did they hurt you?" Sherlock fired off once he knew that Marie was there. The pause after his questions only made him worse, until he was pacing in his protective shield, ruffling his hair furiously in an attempt to distract himself.

"I- just need to stay outside for a moment," Marie's voice sounded pained, strained. Why? What had happened to her?

"Marie, _are you alright? _Tell me what's wrong," Sherlock ordered, trying to ignore how he nearly begged the last portion. He heard Marie inhale, the sound jagged.

"The dark beings that attacked me are all dead, but I can't tell if there are others in the house. I nearly missed the ones who were trying to kill you, and I don't trust myself to be a better judge at the moment," When Marie spoke, it was quickly, as if she was trying to save her breath. "I had to solidify to bounce off the furniture and out of the window, and that hurt, but the sun is helping," she volunteered when Sherlock made a trapped noise, pacing faster. In truth, a lot of worries were still pressing on her. For one thing, she was scanning the rest of the house thoroughly for other dark ghosts now that Sherlock was safe and she was in the sun- it was the best possible situation at that moment. Also, nearly being smothered by the darkness was making her incredibly shaky. No one had ever attempted to kill her in death, and she could barely handle the flashbacks to the mind-burning fear that came when you were about to die. That fear also had her quarantining herself from Sherlock until she calmed down. The urge to hug him, to hold on and not let go, was overpowering. She needed comfort, physical comfort, but knew that she couldn't get any- not from Sherlock. She couldn't check him over for wounds, either. Even in the darkest of circumstances the law still remained: she _could not _touch Sherlock.

As the minutes ticked by, the aching in her body from hitting the antique furniture and from smashing through the window had diminished, as had her general fear. There were no other ghosts in the house, and Sherlock was safe. The only thing she hadn't gotten over was the feeling of dying again, of being crushed, but she could hear Sherlock's heart-rate thundering in her ears- he was panicking. Trying to ignore her shaking, Marie floated back through the window, making sure to stay in the sunbeam that spread across the dirty floorboards. At the sight of her, Sherlock instantly stopped pacing. "Marie, I'm sorry," Sherlock practically croaked, and Marie smiled shakily at him, still shivering in the sunlight. "I should have listened to you, should have noted your discomfort. _Stupid!" _Sherlock yelled the word, fluffing his hair furiously.

"Sherlock, this isn't your fault." Marie said, and he sent her such a look that she backtracked. "Ok, maybe not _entirely _your fault. That one ghost was right; I've been warned about creatures like them, but I've never come across a black ghost- not until now. I had no idea what to look for, what to do, anything. I was unprepared, so I panicked. I'm sorry." Marie told him, and Sherlock made an angry noise.

"Don't. Apologize. I nearly got us both killed over a kilo of cocaine," Sherlock snarled at himself, pacing with increasing agitation. Marie watched him pace for a bit in surprise before she realized that Sherlock was just as terrified as she was- but he was hiding it under the guise of fury to protect himself.

"Sherlock, calm down. It's over; it's all over," Marie repeated to reassure herself as much as Sherlock, and he picked up on it. Their gazes met, and for about a good minute, the two of them just stared at one another, seeking comfort in each other's eyes. Marie let out a shuddering breath, another shiver wracking her body briefly, even in the sun. "Are you ok now?" Marie asked Sherlock, and he gave her a sure nod. Only then did Marie drop the protective shield- it had kept them apart. The idea of accidentally touching Sherlock, especially when he was so upset, was a fear of hers. That would be all it would take for her to accidentally possess him and kill him. Sherlock watched the shield dissipate briefly before stepping forward gingerly, as if he expected something to stop him.

"Marie, are _you _alright?" Sherlock questioned, seeing how Marie shivered again. She grimaced, giving her head a rough shake to clear it of the lingering fears and paranoia.

"Fine. I was just….very, very frightened." Marie shot Sherlock what was supposed to be a wry smile, but it came out weak. "Look, why don't you call the police so they can come out here to pick up the evidence? That way, we can get out of here sooner rather than later," Marie suggested before Sherlock could say anything else. The detective only relented when he had once again treated Marie to a glance that was similar to being x-rayed. Satisfied with what he found, Sherlock approached the sunlight so that he could stand in it as well as he dialed the number of the local police force. It took a brief (and withering, from Sherlock's end) conversation with the chief detective before he agreed to send people out to find the evidence. By the time Sherlock was done with his call, Marie had stopped shivering. "Well, this is good, Sherlock; Mrs. Hudson's husband will go to the electric chair." Marie pointed out when he just glowered at the floor.

"At what cost?" Sherlock murmured to himself.

"Hey," Marie demanded. "That woman needed our help, Sherlock. Her husband was a scumbag and now that he'll be gone forever Mrs. Hudson will be free. We're both still alive, aren't we? Besides, she likes you, and you like her. How often has that happened to you?" Marie pushed, and Sherlock shot her a loaded glare before stalking out of the sunlight and out the door.

He met the police out front and insulted them in his usual manner as he pointed out the ¼ tank rust mark on the boat, the old skid marks on the beach, the faint dusty footprints in the same size and style as Mr. Hudson _and _the kilo of cocaine safely stored in individual packages in the old armoire on the second floor of the abandoned house. The police belittled him in the beginning, but when the cocaine was found they were a lot more cooperative, causing Sherlock to smirk like there was no tomorrow. Marie, for the most part, stayed out of the way. The adrenaline was dying and she felt weak even in the strong sun of the Florida swamps. She wanted the safety and security of a desert, and she wanted Sherlock back in London.

She stayed with him, however, as he went back to see Mrs. Hudson. She wasn't about to let Sherlock out of her sight, not after what had just happened. Even though she was shaky and still a bit scared, seeing Mrs. Hudson's delight and the hug she gave Sherlock made it all worth it. Marie could see the relief on her face, plain and simple, when Sherlock told her that the cocaine had been found. She showered Sherlock with attention, a home-cooked meal, and then a promise that he could call on her at any time while in London, at 221 Baker Street, and she would be more than accommodating. To Marie's surprise and happiness, Sherlock was the perfect gentleman. He was still himself, but he treated Mrs. Hudson like he would Marie, and that made her very happy. Sherlock needed relationships with _people, _with beings that were actually alive. Over the dinner hour, Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock clicked perfectly. Sherlock could show off a bit, and Mrs. Hudson was like a mother hen, clucking and nodding and listening. It was the kind of relationship that Sherlock needed, and Marie felt a rush of gratefulness for the older woman.

By the time Sherlock left, it had grown dark, and the swamps had come alive with noise; birds and bugs alike filled the air with an ungodly racket that almost matched the heat, even at nighttime. Mrs. Hudson made Sherlock swear to drive safely, and then Sherlock was leaving. Marie found his hotel room but then automatically went to a desert first, sighing in relief when the sun baked down upon her. She returned to Sherlock in the morning, and she made him swear on her grave that if Marie told him to _go, _like she had tried to do in the house, that Sherlock would listen. He depended on her supernatural abilities for so many things that he needed to listen when she could detect trouble. Sherlock gave in with much grumbling, considering Marie cited his first case with the Yard and how he probably would have been butchered if she hadn't been able to break his zip-ties.

Sherlock stayed in Florida for a few days in order to help make the arrangements for Mrs. Hudson to return to England. It was the least he could do for her- after all, she had presented him with a very good case. If Marie hadn't noticed the house that had been mostly hidden to Sherlock's eyes, he might never have found it and even if he did, he certainly wouldn't have made it out. He promised to call on Mrs. Hudson once she made it back to London, hugged the older woman goodbye, and then drove to the airport and gladly flew back to his side of the Atlantic. If Sherlock had learned one thing on his trip, it was that he hated America, Americans, and American-made cars with a passion. Everything was loud, wrong, and slow. He was very, _very _glad to touch down in London, his home.

While Sherlock returned home on his flight, Marie visited Thomas, her grave, and also, when her 'death anniversary' rolled around, she and Thomas visited the bakery where she'd died. It was still open, and received a good amount of business, but the place was poisoned for her now. Knowing that her last moments as a human being had transpired right under her feet (as she stood on the spot where she'd come to as a ghost) made her feel awful. The back room of the bakery, which used to be a fun place for her, a place she enjoyed, was now the worst possible place for her to be- and she'd been in isolation _and _in a room full of dark spirits. To make matters worse, Marie had been hoping that a return to the place of her death might help her remember something, _anything, _but nothing popped up. She paced the room up and down, back to front, but all she did was get frustrated. Both Sherlock and Thomas had been sympathetic, but that only made it worse; Marie didn't want pity, she wanted answers.

A year or so passed. Mrs. Hudson constantly offered Sherlock a place to live, but even with a reduced rate he couldn't afford it, so he settled for monthly visits to Mrs. Hudson instead. Marie followed Sherlock around London, getting more and more amused each time Sherlock was kicked out of a flat for explosions, body parts, you name it. Her companionship with Sherlock was all that she had, and if she focused hard, she could almost make herself believe that it was all that she needed. While she loved Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson (even though the woman didn't know she existed), solving cases and her friendship with Thomas, the years weighed heavy on her damaged soul. Every time she heard a story about a ghost passing and every time she helped Sherlock send yet another ghost to eternal rest, she had to watch. She had to see and hear about ghosts going exactly where _she _wanted to go. Earth was nice, and she had moments of happiness there, but…she could feel that she wasn't supposed to be stuck there. She asked Thomas quite a bit about it, but all he could do was sympathize- he'd been there much longer, and the feeling never passed until you did.

Sherlock started work on a string of serial suicides that were so odd in the method that it set his mind on fire. Even though the police hadn't officially _asked _Sherlock to help, he'd been picking around, looking at the evidence to see what he could find. When the evidence wasn't enough for him to make conjectures, he turned to Marie. At first, he was confident that he could get the help he needed when Marie interviewed the serial suicide victims. Both she and Sherlock had been utterly convinced that the victims, when they died, wouldn't move on properly thanks to their traumatic death. What was really puzzling was that Marie couldn't find any of them. She searched for weeks, asked other ghosts, and even found a few new spectrums as she tried filtering through them in an effort to find the victims. The fact that she didn't find them worried her- that meant that they had to be absolutely sure in their choice- they must have been so utterly convinced that death was right for them that they'd moved straight on. That was highly unusual with suicides, _highly _unusual. Even Sherlock couldn't understand why, which put him on edge.

Then, on an ordinary day, while Marie flipped around a laboratory in St. Bart's, bored out of her mind as Sherlock fiddled with a microscope, using oil-immersion to examine a paint chip found at a crime scene, grumbling all the while that his mobile didn't have a signal, the door opened, cuing Marie to instantly hide in a spectrum that no one could see. Mike Stamford stepped through, a man Marie knew well. He was another one of Sherlock's rare human friends, and she loved how cheery he was, even when Sherlock was bordering on insulting him. Mike was so carefree and understanding that he made Marie feel better, even when he wasn't talking to her. "Hmm, a bit different from my day," a man who was limping after him muttered, glancing around the lab. He was a bit on the short side, but had a posture and the hint of a muscular frame to make up for his height. Having 'lived' with Sherlock for her life, Marie could instantly tell that he had been in the military and that he'd been overseas. He seemed intriguing, and hoped that Sherlock wouldn't scare him away with his usual lack of tact.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine," Sherlock asked, not looking up from his microscope. Mike instantly patted himself down, looking for his phone.

"Sorry, Sherlock- it's in my other coat," he said, and chuckled at his own reference to the many lab-coats he wore and shed throughout the day. Sherlock made a light disappointed noise, looking away from his microscope and standing up. Marie smirked, glad that Sherlock would have to get up to get a phone signal, the lazy sod.

"Oh, here- use mine," The man offered, and Sherlock looked at him, an elegant eyebrow arching in surprise.

"Thank you," he said, a bit cautiously, and took the mobile. He fired off a text as Mike introduced the man. His name was John Watson.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock asked artlessly as he handed the phone back. John blinked at him, letting out a surprised scoff, his previously cool and slightly rigid mask of an expression falling right off his face.

"Afghanistan, sorry, how did you-?" He managed, looking to Mike, who was smiling at the lab bench, staying out of it.

"How do you feel about the violin? Sometimes I don't talk for days on end…would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." Sherlock asked, cleaning up his work station and throwing a wry smile at John's shock.

"Flatmates? Who said anything about flatmates?" John asked, not sounding quite so bemused. Now he sounded…guarded, surprised, and a teensy bit impressed.

"I did. There's a nice little place in central London that I've had my eye on, the two of us should be able to afford it. Sorry, I've got to dash- I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary," Sherlock excused himself, moving to go, but John cleared his throat.

"Is that it?" he asked, and when Sherlock sent him a look he continued, "We just met and we're going to look at a flat?" John asked, incredulous, and Marie smiled at the floor. Sherlock was being himself and although John looked taken aback and as if he was struggling to follow along, he wasn't angry, trying to kill Sherlock, or sobbing, which were all usual reactions to meeting Sherlock for the first time. He was doing well- and Marie wanted him to stick around. She could read John's soul residue- she could tell that he was a good man.

"Problem?" Sherlock asked in his usual infuriating way, and John sent him another confused look.

"Well, I don't know you, where we're meeting- I don't even know your name," he said a bit coolly, and Marie beamed at him- he was holding his ground! That was very exciting, something that didn't happen often. She prayed that Sherlock wouldn't spoil it then- he was getting close to making another friend.

"I know that you're an army doctor recently invalided home from Afghanistan. I know that you've got a therapist and a psychosomatic limp and a brother who recently walked out on his wife. That's…quite enough to be going on with, I should think." Sherlock rattled off artlessly, turning to go. Marie quickly glanced back to John, hoping to see that a temper wasn't boiling beneath the surface as Sherlock rattled of his life story like it was nothing, and was relieved to see that he only looked impressed and surprised, not angry. "The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street. Afternoon," Sherlock gave a cheeky wink and waltzed out. Shaking her head and laughing at Sherlock's unnecessary drama, Marie nearly didn't catch John's first impression of Sherlock.

"Yeah, he's always like that," Mike was saying, and John was laughing in disbelief, but he wasn't angry. Not yet. Noting that as an 'improvement of social skills to non-dead people' for Sherlock, Marie vanished, using the spectrums to appear at Sherlock's side.

"Do you think you can be civil enough for a flatshare? John seems really nice- don't piss him off," Marie asked and suggested and ordered at the same time as she shimmered into Sherlock's visibility. He gave a dismissive flick of his head, tucking his riding crop into his coat. "He's not just some ordinary bimbo you can charm your way with, Sherlock. You can't flirt with him either," Marie continued, and Sherlock huffed dramatically as they left St. Bart's.

"There's nothing to discuss, Marie. I'm going to be myself- if that is too much for him that is his own problem." Sherlock said flatly, looking at the street for cabs.

"You give and take a bit with me- you aren't always completely your arsehole self with me. Try doing that with John- I _promise _you it will work out." Marie pointed out, giggling slightly as Sherlock sent her a poisonous look.

"Yes, _Mummy," _He snapped, but she could see the gratefulness for the reassurance she'd provided in his eyes. He hailed a cab and Marie vanished, recognizing that he needed time alone. While Marie went to a desert to sun herself and worry in private about Sherlock, the detective himself called during his taxi ride and arranged for his things to be moved in with Mrs. Hudson. He didn't care if it was hasty; even though he had pegged John as ordinary, he had also pegged him as someone who would be willing (at least for a while) to live with him. Deep down where he didn't register that his emotions existed because he was insistent that he didn't have them, Sherlock knew and god forbid _felt _that he wanted John to stay. He wanted the doctor to live with him simply because he was ordinary, but he wasn't dull. He was simply normal, and Sherlock found that interesting as well as boring- the man was already a paradox. To his delight, Marie didn't come back for when John was to tour Baker Street with him. She seemed to understand exactly when he didn't want pressure or an audience, and for that he was forever grateful.

As he dragged John with him to a crime scene, noting all the while that he could fix his psychosomatic limp, Marie started to vanish from his mind. John hadn't been repulsed by his deductions- in fact, he'd accidentally blurted his appreciations out loud, not once, but _twice. _He had followed Sherlock without question, had taken notes, and had surprised the Yarders when the realized that he had willingly followed Sherlock there. Capitan John Watson, M.D. was the makings of a perfect assistant…if he could keep up.

Sherlock hoped he could.


End file.
